green and yellow
and blue that had seared his eyeballs in the morning. Once, in
making a careful detour around what he had thought to be a large
bowlder, he was surprised to discover that, after all, it was only
a small fragment of stone, over which he could very easily have
stepped. Again, it was borne in on his consciousness that something
was very wrong with him--seriously so!

By-and-by, the snow-drifts began to heave and run, like waves in
a choppy sea, and Donald found himself staggering at every stride.
Finally, to avoid falling, he was compelled to shut his eyes, for
each glint from the snow was like the stab of a dagger through his
brain... He was snow-blind.

Yet, he must reach the wood. Within its shelter lay his sole hope
of safety. So, he lurched forward with frenzied haste. The sun was
sinking low to the horizon now. He knew, though he stumbled on with
closed eyelids, for he could feel the rays on his cheek, which
served him for compass to guide his steps toward the east. In such
evil plight, with fatigue racking his body and anxiety rending his;
soul, he struggled toward his goal. Always, the pain in his eyes
was a torture. Through it all, he kept listening eagerly for the
sough of wind among branches... For the time, he had forgotten that
those branches were muted by their covering of snow.

Without any warning, Donald bumped full into a tree. The force of
the impact on his weakened frame was such that he fell floundering
on the snow. But, in an instant, he was up again, new hope surging
in his breast, for, now, he knew that he had indeed reached the
edge of the forest. Using the sense of touch to save him from other
collisions, he proceeded cautiously among the trees for a half-mile
or more, and then, at last, pitched his pitiful camp. Sightless,
he managed somehow, albeit very clumsily, to hack some fragments
of bark from the bole of the tree beneath which he had come to a
halt, and with these he made a fire, and heated the snow-water for
his tea. When he had completed his scanty meal, he made a poultice
for his eyes from the tea-leaves, and bound it in place. Then,
swathed in his blankets, he endured as best he might a night of
anguish. No sleep came to his assuaging. His brain was a chaos in
which countless suns and planets swirled madly, rushing to countless
explosions of torment. In those hours, he suffered an eternity,
for back of material agony was a spirit's despair.

In a momentary lull