go slow." So he waited for fifteen minutes. Then
again, beginning with a slow walk, he ere long added to his pace. In
half an hour he was striding and in an hour the steady "trot, trot,"
that slackened only for the hills or swamps. In an hour more he was
on the Washburn Ridge, and far away in the east saw Schroon Lake that
empties in the river Schroon; and as he strode along, exulting in his
strength, he sang in his heart for joy. Again a gray wolf cantered on
his trail, and the runner laughed, without a thought of fear. He seemed
to know the creature better now; knew it as a brother, for it gave
no hostile sound, but only seemed to trot, trot, for the small joy of
running with a runner, as a swallow or an antelope will skim along by
a speeding train. For an hour or more it matched his pace, then left as
though its pleasant stroll was done, and Rolf kept on and on and on.

The spring sun soared on high, the day grew warm at noon. Schroon River
just above the lake was in his path, and here he stopped to rest. Here,
with the last of his oatcake and a little tea, he made his final meal;
thirty eight miles had he covered since he rose; his clothes were torn,
his moccasins worn, but his legs were strong, his purpose sure; only
twenty-two miles now, and his duty would be done; his honours won. What
should he do, push on at once? No, he meant to rest an hour. He made a
good fire by a little pool, and using a great mass of caribou moss as a
sponge, he had a thorough rub-down. He got out his ever-ready needle
and put his moccasins in good shape; he dried his clothes and lay on his
back till the hour was nearly gone. Then he girded himself for this the
final run. He was weary, indeed, but he was far from spent, and the iron
will that had yearly grown in force was there with its unconquerable
support.

Slowly at start, soon striding, and at last in the famous jog trot of
the scout he went. The sky was blackened with clouds at length, and the
jealous, howling east wind rolled up in rain; the spindrift blurred the
way; the heavy showers of spring came down and drenched him; but his
pack was safe and he trotted on and on. Then long, deep swamps of alder
barred his path, and, guided only by the compass, Rolf pushed in and
through and ever east. Barely a mile an hour in the thickest part
he made, but lagged not; drenched and footsore, warm and torn, but
doggedly, steadily on. At three he had made a scant seven miles; then
the level, o