teeth. Then he crushed the bones between rocks, pounded them to a
pulp, and swallowed them. He pounded his fingers, too, in his
haste, and yet found a moment in which to feel surprise at the fact
that his fingers did not hurt much when caught under the descending
rock.

Came frightful days of snow and rain. He did not know when he made
camp, when he broke camp. He travelled in the night as much as in
the day. He rested wherever he fell, crawled on whenever the dying
life in him flickered up and burned less dimly. He, as a man, no
longer strove. It was the life in him, unwilling to die, that
drove him on. He did not suffer. His nerves had become blunted,
numb, while his mind was filled with weird visions and delicious
dreams.

But ever he sucked and chewed on the crushed bones of the caribou
calf, the least remnants of which he had gathered up and carried
with him. He crossed no more hills or divides, but automatically
followed a large stream which flowed through a wide and shallow
valley. He did not see this stream nor this valley. He saw
nothing save visions. Soul and body walked or crawled side by
side, yet apart, so slender was the thread that bound them.

He awoke in his right mind, lying on his back on a rocky ledge.
The sun was shining bright and warm. Afar off he heard the
squawking of caribou calves. He was aware of vague memories of
rain and wind and snow, but whether he had been beaten by the storm
for two days or two weeks he did not know.

For some time he lay without movement, the genial sunshine pouring