Howat himself responded thoroughly to such an expedition; to the mystery
of the primitive woods, doubly withdrawn in the dark; the calls of the
others, near or far, or completely lost in a silence of stars; the still
immensity of a land unguessed, mythical--endless trees, endless
mountains, endless rivers with their headwaters buried in arctic
countries beyond human experience, and emptying into the miraculous blue
and gilded seas of the tropics.

Fanny Gilkan would follow the dogs closely, too, with infinite swing
and zest. She knew the country better than himself, better almost than
any one else at the Furnace. He stirred at her urgency, and she caught
his arm, dragging him from behind the table. She tied a linsey-woolsey
jacket by its arms about her waist, and put out the candles. Outside the
blast was steadily in progress at the stack; the clear glow of the flame
shifted over the nearby walls, glinted on the new yellow of more distant
foliage, fell in sharp or blurred traceries against the surrounding
night.

They could hear the short, impatient yelps of the dogs; but, before they
reached them, the hunt was away. A lantern flickered far ahead, a minute
blur vanishing through files of trees. Fanny turned to the right,
mounting an abrupt slope thickly wooded toward the crown. A late moon,
past full, shed an unsteady light through interlaced boughs, matted
grape vines, creepers flung from tree to tree; it shone on a hurrying
rill, a bright thread drawn through the brush. Fanny Gilkan jumped
lightly from bank to bank. She made her way with lithe ease through
apparently unbroken tangles. It was Fanny who went ahead, who waited for
Howat to follow across a fallen trunk higher than his waist. She even
mocked him gaily, declared that, through his slowness, they were
hopelessly losing the hunt.