At the close of the day the hunters and their dogs were returning to their cabin after having shot enough small game for some time.
A solemn stillness had until now prevailed, when suddenly, without warning, there were heard with startling clearness on the frosty air hissing or whizzing sounds, like the crackling of firebrands in a furnace.
With the first appearance of the polaris in the heavens Dunbar became greatly excited, clutching the arm of his companion until he cried out with pain.
"It has come at last! Its the judgment! Its hell, hell! See the blood! See it on my hands—it covers everything. Hell's everywhere!" and the man shrieked, tearing his clothing from him and darting from side to side as if trying to escape some awful fate.
In vain the younger man tried to quiet him.
"The devil's coming! He'll get me! Keep him away!" he cried with curses, and he crouched at the feet of Gibbs, a wild-eyed, and screaming maniac.
At that instant the crackling about their heads became louder, and the older man sprang to his feet in a frenzy of fright.
Leaping, shouting, cursing, flinging out his arms to imaginary assailants, tearing his beard and his hair by handfuls, he ran to and fro, a raving madman. Then in an insane frenzy he turned his back on his companion for one instant as if about to flee to the woods, when Gibbs, snatching his revolver from his belt, aimed it at the man's back and fired.
Dunbar fell dead upon the ground.
Until that moment the dogs, quite unconcerned at what was going on about them, being intent only upon following their trail of the morning back to the cabin, now fled toward home, howling dismally.