suffered
more than the Indian, and plodded forward in a sort of stupor, which
threatened to end in fatal unconsciousness at any moment. But even
Peter's keen senses were dulled by the cold, and his movements, though
little less agile, were more mechanical. His face was grey and
pinched, and his hard, grey eyes were very weary also. He seemed
leaner and more shrunken than ever. But his mouth was set in grim
determination to meet whatever fate might be in store for him with
fitting dignity.

At first, Dick's remorse had been passionate. "It's my wretched
obstinacy has led us into this, Peter," he said repeatedly; "but sorrow
can't do any good now. Nothing can do any good. Oh, what a fool, what
a silly, self-willed fool I was! And all my regret is useless!
Everything's useless! There's nothing to help us."

"Except Great Spirit," the Indian replied austerely, though Dick, in
his despairing mood, scarcely noticed the words, and went on with his
vain regrets and repentance.

But now the stealthy hand of the frost was lulling all his hopes and
fears and regrets to sleep. As he plodded on beside the staggering
pony, he thought only of his previous life, and that without any pain
or grief. He vaguely remembered one May morning long ago, before his
mother had died, when Stephanie had crowned herself with all the first
frail blossoms of the year, and had then danced over the miserable
log-hut, brightening it with the spirit of grace and childhood, and
sweetening it with the shy fragrance of spring flowers. He had
forgotten the little incident entirely, but now he remembered it
clearly enough, and idly wondered over it. He suddenly seemed to
remember so many things, pleasant little happenings of past years. And
his mind dwelt upon them more and more dreamily. More and more slowly
he walked, half-forgetting the benumbing ache of cold, the rush and
whirl of the surrounding snow.

He was roughly roused from his dangerous dreams. The restless, dancing
drifts and eddies of snow seemed to vanish from beneath his feet, and
he fell head foremost down a steep bank, some three feet deep, into a
little depression of the soil between two high ridges. In spring this
was doubtless a slough, haunted by wild-fowl, but now it was dry, and
covered with grass, thin and poor, but much relished by the trembling,
famished pony. It was sheltered on all sides by the three-foot banks,
crested with little straggling bushes, against w