He was following the back-trail by memory and instinct, for the rain had wiped all signs of the pursuit from the face of the earth. At times Sunrise thought of what he was leaving behind him; at times of the work that was still to do.
These two thoughts, so opposite that it was paradoxical for them to be contained in one skull, supported him thro the cruel toil of his going.
When he came to the forest it was wet and green and full of bird singing: for at this time the birds were mating and it seemed sweet to them.
That day he killed, ate greatly and drank deep. After which he slept; and there was no log in the forest which lay more still. It was as tho’ he had died.
In the night wolves came and sniffed at him and could hardly believe the noses which told them that he was alive and not for them. In the morning he came to life, and tho’ still aching in every bone, took up the back-trail at the trot.
The going was easier in the forest and more secure, for there the rain had not fallen so violently, and the tracks were still visible—his own tracks and the tracks of those feet which would not press into moss any more. He went on all that day, and the next night.
He came at length to the place where he had left Dawn, but she was not there. He knew that she would not be, and yet somehow his heart sank.
“She had no weapons,” he said. “Furthermore she was very weak and it may be that the meat was not sufficient.”
For an hour or more, running swiftly, he followed a winding and rambling trail.