His soul was burning with a joy
that it had never known. Beautiful visions danced in his brain, and
always he heard the woman's voice praying to him in the little cabin, saw
her eyes upon him through that white snow veil! Ah, what would he not
give if he could find the man, if he could take Cummins back to his wife,
and stand for one moment more with her hands clasping his, her joy
flooding him with a sweetness that would last for all time! He plunged
fearlessly into the white world beyond the lake, his wide snowshoes
sinking ankle-deep at every step. There was neither rock nor tree to
guide him, for everywhere was the heavy ghost-raiment of the Indian God.
The balsams were bending under it, the spruces were breaking into
hunchback forms, the whole world was twisted in noiseless torture under
its increasing weight, and out through the still terror of it all Jan's
voice went in wild echoing shouts. Now and then he fired his rifle, and
always he listened long and intently. The echoes came back to him,
laughing, taunting, and then each time fell the mirthless silence of the
storm. Night came, a little darker than the day, and Jan stopped to build
a fire and eat sparingly of his food, and to sleep. It was still night
when he aroused himself and stumbled on. Never did he take the weight of
his rifle from his right hand or shoulder, for he knew this weight would
shorten the distance traveled at each step by his right foot, and would
make him go in a circle that would bring him back to the lake.
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