she, too, followed the Trail,
that dread symbol of so many hopes and ideals and despairs. Dick did
not notice her, did not remember her existence, any more than he
remembered the existence of Sam Bolton, of trees, of streams, of summer
and warm winds, of the world, of the devil, of God, of himself.

All about him the landscape swayed like mist; the suns danced indecent
revel; specks and blotches, the beginning of snow-blindness, swam
grotesquely projected into a world less real than they. Living things
moved everywhere. Ordinarily the man paid no attention to them, knowing
them for what they were, but once, warned by some deep and subtle
instinct, he made the effort to clear his vision and saw a fox. By
another miracle he killed it. The carcass he divided with his dog. He
gave none of it to the girl.

By evening of the second day he had not yet overtaken his quarry. But
the trail was evidently fresher, and the fox's meat gave him another
chance. He slept, as before, with Mack the hound; and, as before,
May-may-gwan crept in hours later to fall exhausted.

And over the three figures, lying as dead, the North whirred in the
wind, waiting to stoop, triumphing, glorying that she had brought the
boasts of men to nothing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The next morning was the third day. There was no delay in getting
started. All Dick had to do was to roll his blanket. He whirled on,
still with his impetuous, fictitious vigour unimpaired. The girl
staggered after him ten feet, then pitched forward. He turned
uncertainly. She reached out to touch him. Her eyes said a farewell. It
was the end.

Dick stood a moment, his eyes vague. Then mechanically he put his head
down, mechanically he looked for the Trail, mechanically he shot away
alone, alone except for the faithful, gaunt hound, the only thing that
remained to him out of a whole world of living beings.

To his fevered vision the Trail was becoming fresher. Every step he took
gave him the impression of so much gained, as though the man he was in
pursuit of was standing still waiting to be taken. For the first time in
months the conviction of absolute success took possession of him. His
sight cleared, his heart beat strong, his whole being quivered with
vigour. The illusion of the North faded away like a mist. The world was
a flat plain of snow, with here and there a stunted spruce, knee-high,
protruding above it, and with here and there an inequality of hidden
bowld