"'Th' Nascaupees has took un. The Nascaupees has sure took un," he said dejectedly, when he realized that the tent was really gone.
His situation was now desperate. He had no axe with which to build a temporary shelter or cut wood for a fire. The nearest cover was his tilt, and to reach it in the blinding, smothering snow-storm seemed hopeless. Already the cold was eating to his bones and he knew he must keep moving or freeze to death.
With the wind on his right he turned towards the south in the gathering darkness. He could not see two yards ahead. Blindly he plodded along hour after hour. As the time dragged on it seemed to him that he had been walking for ages. His motion became mechanical. He was faint from hunger and his mouth parched with thirst. The bitter wind was reaching to his very vitals in spite of the exertion, and at last he did not feel it much. He stumbled and fell now and again and each time it was more difficult to rise.
There was always a strong inclination to lie a little where he fell and rest, but his benumbed brain told him that to stop walking meant death, and urged him up again to further action.
Finally the snow ceased but he did not notice it. With his head held back and staring straight before him at nothing he stalked on throwing his feet ahead like an automaton. The stars came out one after another and looked down pitilessly upon the tragedy that was being enacted before their very eyes.
Many hours had passed; morning was close at hand. The cold grew more intensely bitter but Bob did not know it. He was quite insensible to sensations now. Vaguely he imagined himself going home to Wolf Bight. It was not far—he was almost there. In a little while he would see his father and mother and Emily—Emily—Emily was sick. He had something to make her her well—make her well—a silver fox—that would do it—yes, that would do it—a silver fox would make her well—dear little Emily.
From the distance there came over the frozen world a wolf's howl, followed by another and another. The wolves were giving the cry of pursuit. There must be many of them and they were after caribou or game of some sort. This was the only impression the sound made upon his numbed senses.
Daylight was coming. He was very sleepy—very, very sleepy. Why not go to sleep? There was no reason for walking when it was so nice and warm here—and he was so weary and sleepy. There were trees all around and a nice white bed spread under them. He stumbled and fell and did not try to get up. Why should he? There was plenty of time to go home. It was so comfortable and soft here and he was so sleepy.
Then he imagined that he was in the warm tilt with the fire crackling in the stove. He cuddled down in the snow, and said the little prayer that he never forgot at night.
"Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep,
I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-keep,
If-I-should-die-before-I-wake
I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-take.
An'-God-make-Emily-well."