Could he go back?
Go back? No; that was a simple impossibility. How should he go back? Not through the woods, for he could make but small advance through the dense forest that now surrounded him; not up the stream, for how could his strength bear him on against this current? He would have to wander for days before he could reach the place which he had left that morning; and of what avail would it be if he did reach it? What would he do? Where could he go? No; to go back was not to be thought of.
He saw plainly that he had now to make choice from, one of two alternatives.
One was to remain here and wait for the fires to subside.
The other was to go forward.
Now, the idea of waiting here was intolerable. To wait here idle, or, perhaps, slowly retreating before the advancing fires, enduring day after day the hunger, the fatigue, and the misery of such a situation, seemed the worst fate conceivable. Where could he sleep at night? How could he endure living in the water by day? Besides, the fire was evidently advancing in a direction which led it up stream; so that he would merely be driven before it back to his old quarters, to perish miserably. To be driven back before the fires would be a lingering death. It was not to be thought of, so long as any other course was possible.
What, then, was the other course?
The other course was—to go forward.
To go forward!
This was what Phil longed to do, with longing unspeakable. To go forward would lead him farther down the river. To go forward would carry him beyond the fires. Once let him pass the place where the fire raged, and then he would be on the other side of it; out of its hot breath; away from its stifling smoke. Could he but once make that passage, all would be well. To him it seemed as though on the other side of those fires there lay the abodes of men, and open lands, and pure air, and help, and liberty, and life. It was there that he longed to go.