im to think what a very lonely place it would be to die
in, and a premonition that he was going to die came across him.

Having found the blasted tree, he counted four fallen trees; they came
at intervals in the outer row of standing ones; then there was a break
in the forest, and he turned his boat into it and paused to listen.

The sound that met his ear--almost the strangest sound that could have
been heard in that place--was that of human speech; it was still some
distance away, but he heard a voice raised in angry excitement,
supplicating, threatening, defying, and complaining.

Toyner began to row down the untried water-way which was opened to his
boat. The idea that any one had found Markham in such a place and at
such an hour was too extraordinary to be credited. Toyner looked eagerly
into the mist. He could see nothing but queer-shaped gulfs of light
between trunks and branches. Again his boat rubbed unexpectedly against
a stump, and again the strange premonition of approaching death came
over him. For a moment he thought that his wisest course would be to
return. Then he decided to go forward; but before obeying this command,
his mind gave one of those sudden self-attentive flashes the capacity
for which marks off the mind of the reflective type from others. He saw
himself as he sat there, his whole appearance and dress; he took in his
history, and the place to which that hour had brought him, he, Bart
Toyner, a thin, somewhat drooping, middle-aged man, unsuccessful,
because of his self-indulgence, in all that he had attempted, yet having
carried about with him always high desires, which had never had the
slightest realisation except in the one clear shining space of vision
and victory which had been his for a few months and now was gone. The
light had mocked him; now perhaps he was going to die!

He pushed his boat on, his sensations melting into an excited blank of
thought in which curiosity was alone apparent. He was growing strangely
excited after his long calm despondency; no doubt the excitement of the
other, who was shouting and jabbering not far away in the moonlit
night, affected him.

He found his way through the trees of the opening; evidently the splash
of his oar was caught by the owner of the noisy voice, for before he
could see any one a silence succeeded to the noise, a sudden absolute
silence, in itself shocking.

"Are you there, Markham?" cried Toyner.

No answer.

Toyner peered into