—On Isle le Haut.
It was a saffron dawn. It was a dawn diffuse and weird. A smear of copper in the east marked the presence of the sun. For the rest, the sky was a sickly monochrome, a dirty yellow, a boding yellow. It was not a wind that blew; a wind has somewhat of freshness in it. It was simply smoky air—air that rolled sullenly—choking, heavy, bitter, acrid air that was to the nostrils what the sky was to the eye.
After they had toiled around the base of the mountain and were well into Pogey Notch, the man ahead, stumbling doggedly and stubbornly, found water. It was only a little puddle, cowering from the drouth. The trees had helped it to hide away. They had scattered their autumn foliage upon it, beeches and birches which were grateful, for the pool had humbly cooled their feet in the hot summer.
The man ahead, thirst giving him almost a canine scent, fell rather than kneeled beside the pool, thrust his face through the leaves, and guffled the stale water. Then he plunged his smarting eyes, wide open, into the shallow depths.
When he faced once more the smother of the smoke and the man who stood over him, he seemed to have a flash of new courage. His eyes blazed again, his rumpled gray hair seemed to bristle.
But his defiance was only the desperation of the coward at bay.
“You’ve teamed me all night, Lane—from Withee’s camp to here. I have asked questions, and you haven’t answered me; but now, by ——, say what you want of me, and let’s have this thing over!”
It was an air that would have cowed an inferior in John Barrett’s office in the city, where tyranny swelled the folds of a frock-coat and was framed in the door of a money vault.