“No, he is not that type of—thief.” Within an hour Hardy left. Le Massan watched with disapproving eyes as Hardy swung onto the trail.
“Which way has he gone? North or south? I would be inclined to think south, perhaps to the nearest railway station. Yet that assumption seems so simple—too simple. Therefore, I turn north.”
The day was magnificent. Clear, sparkling, the sun of dazzling brilliance.
It was that transition period between the darkness of winter and the coming of spring, when the world takes on an unearthly aspect. The brilliant sun gave a glaring light. Tree and bush glittered with indescribable beauty.
Hardy had been on the trail several days when he began to notice his blurred vision. “Eyes are weak. Smallpox often leaves a weakened condition of sight,” he reassured himself.
Yet the following morning when he awakened he found his lids glued together with a thick sticky substance. By feel only he built his fire, melted a small pail of snow. For an hour he bathed his swollen lids, separating them at last. But his sight was poor, and an intolerable pain pierced his eyeballs.
All day he kept going, closing his eyes as much as possible against a world that glistened like polished steel. Dimmer grew his vision. By mid-afternoon darkness closed in.
“Snowblind!” For a moment panic seized him, but his iron will quickly controlled it.
“Other men have had the same experience and came through,” he told himself grimly.
He sat in the sled, while the dogs trotted up the wind-swept ice, his ears straining for the sound of other sled runners, or the crunch of webs.