me upon a clump of white birches.

With fingers that could hardly hold the curling bark he gathered a few
bunches and hurried back to the cave. Again he went forth and gathered
from the standing trees an armful of dead dry limbs. "Good!" he cried
aloud in triumph. "We're not beaten yet. Now for the fire and supper."
He drew forth his steel matchbox with numb and shaking fingers, opened
it and stood stricken dumb. There were only three matches in the box.
Unreasoning terror seized him. Three chances for life! He chose a match,
struck it, but in his numb and nerveless fingers the match snapped
near the head. With a new terror seizing him he took a second match and
struck it. The match flared, sputtering. Eagerly he thrust the birch
bark at it; too eagerly, alas, for the bark rubbed out the tiny flame.
He had one match left! One hope of life! He closed his matchbox. His
hands were trembling with the cold and more with nervous fear that shook
him in every limb. He could not bring himself to make the last attempt.
Up and down the cave and out and in he stamped, beating his hands to
bring back the blood and fighting hard to get back his nerve.

"This is all rotten funk!" he cried aloud, raging at himself. "I shall
not be beaten."

Summoning all his powers, he once more pulled out his matchbox, rubbed
his birch bark fine and, kneeling down, placed it between his knees
under the shelter of his hunting jacket. Kneeling there with the
matchbox in his hand, there fell upon his spirit a great calm. "Oh,
God!" he said quietly and with the conviction in his soul that there
was One listening, "help me now." He opened the matchbox, took out the
match, struck it carefully and laid it among the birch bark. For one
heart-racking moment it flickered unsteadily, then, catching a resinous
fibre of the bark, it flared up, shot out a tiny tongue to one of the
heavier bunches, caught hold, sputtered, smoked, burst into flame. With
the prayer still going in his heart, "God help me now," Cameron fed the
flame with bits of bark and tiny twigs, adding more and more till the
fire began to leap, dance, and snap, and at length gaining strength it
roared its triumph over the grim terror so recently threatened.

For the present at least the blizzard was beaten.

"Now God be thanked for that," said Cameron. "For it was past my doing."

CHAPTER II

ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM

Shivering and hungry and fighting with sleep, Cameron stamped up
a