Again he coughed spasmodically—hackingly. When the paroxysm had passed, he continued his whispered, broken monologue:
“I wonder what became of Bright Wing and Joe. I’m glad they thought me dead. They’d have sacrificed their lives by staying; and done me no good. They may be dead; they may be prisoners among the Winnebagoes; or they may have escaped. If they got away unharmed, they’ll return to Franklinton and report my death. My God! My God! Amy—dear girl! The news will break her heart. And—great heavens! She may be persuaded to marry George Hilliard!”
Bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned. He was suffering mentally and physically. His temples were throbbing; his skin was hot and dry. The demon of fever was dancing through his arteries.
For some time, he sat silently staring into the depths of the fire. Above him the stars winked pitilessly; around him the lean shadows glided among the trees and eerily mocked him. No eye but God’s was upon him; no hand was stretched forth to save him.
He mused mumblingly—half deliriously:
“Even God will not help me. He would not, if he could. He has laid down inflexible laws for the government of the universe; he will not alter them to accommodate the individual. But I’ll not despair—I will not! I will overcome all obstacles; I will cheat fate. The snow has concealed all signs of our encounter with the Winnebagoes; has covered our trail. Bradford and his braves will never find me. On the morrow I’ll procure food; then I shall be stronger. I’ll work my way eastward, by easy stages. Now I’ll lie down and try to snatch a few hours of natural sleep. Oh! This terrific cough and pain! And my head!”
He piled more dry wood upon the fire, and stretched himself upon the ground. Duke nestled at his back and helped to keep him warm. The red blaze crackled cheerily; the smoke and sparks ascended in gyrating columns. The wounded man lay and watched them until his eyelids closed.
When he awoke it was broad daylight. The fire had burned down; only a few gray embers and charred bits of wood marked its place. Duke, with bristles erect, was sitting by his master’s side, growling mutteringly—warningly. It was this sound that had awakened the sleeper.
Ross rubbed his eyes and sought to arise. But his limbs were as lead; his blood was as ice. He stirred; and a thousand needles pricked his flesh. By great effort he sat erect. His head gave him keenest torture; his eyes threatened to drop from their sockets. His sight was dim. Strange noises rang in his ears. He tried to take a deep breath; but the pain in his chest caused him to moan aloud. His heart was thumping tumultuously. Thor’s hammer was beating in his brain.