Eagerly with panting breath he felt among the brush, got a pile together, carried them to the shore ice. There were matches in the waterproof case in the parka pocket. Quickly he kindled a fire, a fitful, smoldering little flame, but its warmth was inexpressively grateful to the chilled man.
Many round balls of eyes from culvert and hilltop watched that fire curiously, fearfully.
Hardy did not know it, but death was near, lurking in fangs and claw. If he allowed that blaze to extinguish, the gray terrors of the wild would be on him.
The old priest raised a shaking hand, touched Morely’s face half fearfully. “Ees eet really you, my son? So often ’ave I dreamed that you came like this, only to awaken. Are you real or ees this but another dream?”
His tired, sunken eyes gazed anxiously at the man.
Morely threw an arm around the bowed shoulders, held the thin body to him for a moment. “It is I, father. And the first thing I do is to put you to bed. You are worn out. You need rest. I shall take charge here—”
“Le bon Dieu! How often ’ave I prayed for your return, my son! God ees good.”
Morely arrived at the peak of the epidemic and threw himself body and mind into the battle. Day and night he worked with but brief intervals for rest.
“If only I had fresh vaccine!” he groaned. Vigorously he segregated the well from the sick; battled to keep wailing mothers from dying children, fought to keep fathers from stricken sons.
“My son, you mus’ rest. So hard you work,” the old priest said anxiously.