"I'm here," replied a faint voice.
"Is it you, Jim?"
"Yes. Why have you run away, Flora? Wasn't one enough?"
"Where is your fire? What are you doing?"
"My fire seems to have gone out. I'm not doing anything."
"But—what is the matter with you?"
"Nothing much. Cut my leg—like a fool."
The girl dropped pack and gun and rustled dry wood for the second time within the hour. She worked in silence, fumbling in the dark; and Jim, too, was silent. The dogs whined anxiously. She found a white birch, from which she tore strips of bark, and she hacked away dozens of the dead lower branches of big spruces and firs. Soon strong flames were leaping, and by their light she saw Jim lying, rolled in blankets, on the snow. Only his head was uncovered. His eyes were wide open, regarding her fixedly.
"Didn't it work? Are they after you?" he asked.
For answer, she freed her feet from the snowshoes and knelt beside him.