The Wanderer on his winding Way.—The Bewilderment of the Forest.—Swamps and Bogs.—? The friendly Brook.—Following the Flow of the running Water.—A pleasant Course.—An encouraging Discovery.—Astray once more.—He sinks to Rest.—The last Sandwich.IT was very late when Phil fell asleep, and his fatigue and exhaustion combined to make his sleep heavy and prolonged. As there were no sounds to break in upon his slumbers, he continued sleeping until late on the following day. On awaking he raised himself up, and looked around in surprise, for in his dreams he had been wandering among familiar scenes, and it was some time before he could comprehend his present situation. But his mossy bed at the foot of a large maple tree, and the woods that extended all around on every side, soon enabled him to recall the events of the preceding day, and to understand how he came here.
These recollections were not cheerful, nor was it a pleasant change to turn from happy dreams to such an awakening as this; yet Phil was not cast down. He still felt the beneficial effect of those better thoughts of the night before; and still retained that buoyancy of spirit and that hopefulness which he had felt on going to sleep.
And now another day had dawned, with its possibilities for good and evil. His watch told him, to his amazement, that it was after ten o’clock. Ten o’clock! After ten o’clock, and yet no signs of Bart and the others! What did this mean? Had they neglected him so long? Neglected him? No. They could not do that; but was it not possible that during his sleep they may have wandered about these woods near him, and called to him while he could not hear them? This was a most distressing thought, and if such a thing had happened, its result would bring a twofold evil; for in the first place, he would have missed the chance of deliverance, and in the second place, they would not be likely to pass by here again. But these thoughts were not of a kind that he chose to entertain. He was in no mood now to sink into despondent inaction. He was tired of this place, and was anxious to leave it. He was also wearied of inaction, and was eager to do something. Far better did it seem to him to do anything, and go anywhere, even if he should be unsuccessful, than to remain here waiting for those who might never come. So he at once dismissed all idle thoughts and useless regrets, and addressed himself to the task of arranging his own course of action.
He saw at once that the points of the compass were as much a mystery as ever. The first glance upward showed him that the sky was darker than ever, that its covering was more opaque, that the smoke was nearer to the earth. The air also, was close and oppressive. The sun was not visible, and therefore his hope failed of finding some course which he might pursue by this means. What, then, was he to do?
The first thing that he decided on doing was, to take his breakfast. Now, he had eaten pretty freely on the preceding night, and therefore it was with some concern that he opened his basket and examined his stores. That concern was certainly not at all lessened when he found that he had only two sandwiches left.
Two sandwiches!
Rather a small supply of provisions for one who was lost in the midst of the forest, and had no idea whatever when he might be able to find his way out. Phil would not allow himself to feel anxious about this, yet at the same time he was prudent enough to look out for the future; and so, though he was hungry, and felt the need of a good breakfast, yet he did not feel inclined to devour all of his slender stock at that one meal. He chose rather to exercise some self-denial; and so he contented himself with only one sandwich, and put the other back, reserving it for a time of need.
He now felt thirsty, and began to look around for water. He could not find any for a long time. Meanwhile, as he walked about, the exertion made him much more sensitive to the closeness and heat of that torrid atmosphere, and so aggravated his thirst that it began to torment him to an intolerable degree. At length, to his great joy, he found a swampy place; and, stooping down, he tore out the moss and sods, and scooped up the black mud that was underneath, until at last some black, discolored water appeared. He took a few mouthfuls of this without hesitation, and then, scooping out some more mud, he waited till the water should grow clearer. The particles of mud after a time settled at the bottom, and the water became clear enough for Phil to drink it; and though it was disagreeably warm, it yet refreshed him.
He now resumed his course. This swamp lay in a slight hollow, and seemed to extend for some distance. He was loath to leave it, for the remembrance of his recent sufferings was strong within him; and so he walked along the swampy hollow. To his surprise it extended for a long distance, and to his great gratification the moisture of the ground increased, until at length the bog became more and more marshy, and pools of standing water became visible. He skirted the edge of the swamp, still walking on, and at length reached a place where a small brook flowed on out of this swamp into the woods. Along this he walked for a little distance, and then took another draught of the water, which he now found quite pure, and not so warm as to be unpleasant. Much refreshed, he sat down by its edge, and once more began to deliberate about the best course that he could take.
He did not like the state of things altogether. It was bad enough to be lost in the forest; but there were other things superadded which made his situation far worse. For he now felt the oppressiveness of the air most painfully, and the exertion of walking was far more exhaustive than he had ever known it before. Besides, the atmosphere had a smoky character, which was distressing, and the thick smoke clouds overhead showed that something was going on in these woods that might ere long make his situation much worse. There was, indeed, something ominous in that sickly, leaden sky, in those rolling smoke clouds that hung so low, in this suffocating air which he could not breathe with comfort,—something ominous in the oppressive heat, and in the stagnation of the atmosphere. There was, however, a breeze; its signs were visible overhead, but the woods were so dense that he could not gain any benefit from it. What the meaning of it all might be, he could easily conjecture; but the thought was too formidable to be entertained, and so he tried to dismiss it from his mind.
And now, while he thought of what he ought to do, a plan of action suggested itself which was so-simple, so feasible, and so full of promise, that he at once caught at it and proceeded to act upon it. This plan was nothing else than to follow the course of the brook. It would of course enlarge as it ran on. It might lead into a larger stream, and that stream would be sure to bring him out somewhere. Besides, to be near a stream would be of great advantage in many ways. It would be more open, and lighter, and more airy than the thick recesses of the forest; its bed would offer a comparatively easy footpath, except where it might become too strong or swampy; and he would always be in the neighborhood of water.
On this idea he proceeded at once to act, and so resumed his journey, walking in the bed of the little brook. The bottom afforded an easy path; and though the water was over his ankles, yet its coolness was refreshing, and served to alleviate very materially the effects of the sultry atmosphere.
But on resuming his course, Phil saw that if he hoped to make any real progress, he must divest himself of all useless encumbrances. His basket and his fishing-rod were of this description. He therefore sacrificed both of them to the necessities of the occasion; but before he threw them down, he removed the hook and line from the rod, so as to have it in case of need. And now, as he went on, he felt the benefit of this disencumbrance; for the weight and inconvenience of these had been excessively troublesome all along. Yet the line and hook were the only essential part of the rod, and the sandwich was the only necessary part of the basket; and these things were carried far more conveniently in his pocket.
The brook flowed on, and gradually increased in volume by the occasional addition of other brooklets, which joined it in its course. The channel grew broader, and the waters grew more abundant, sometimes spreading themselves out wide over a pebbly bottom, at other times collecting into deep pools, which Phil preferred avoiding. In spite of the irregularities and inequalities of its course, Phil preferred walking here to wandering at random through the woods; in the first place, on account of the reasons above mentioned; and in the second place, for the reason that it led to some definite point, and would not allow him to wander about blindly in a circle. The hopeless bewilderment which had resulted from his forest wanderings on the previous day, made his present course seem quite certain and definite in comparison.
At last, to Phil’s great delight, the brook joined another brook, which was fully twice as large, though not as large as that stream where he had been fishing. A vague hope had arisen in his mind that this brook might lead him to that very stream, in which case he counted confidently on finding his friends; but now he had walked so far that he gave up this hope altogether, and had made up his mind to seek his own safety, irrespective of his friends. The new brook was quite as easy as the old one; in fact, it was somewhat more so, for it was less irregular, and presented fewer inequalities of depths. Over its bed, then, Phil trudged on, sometimes stopping to dash water over his face and head, at other times thrusting in his hands, and occasionally bending down to take a drink. The presence of the brook thus proved of the greatest advantage to him, and its cool waters prevented him from feeling that exhaustion under which he might otherwise have sunk utterly. In the broader pathway that this brook afforded, he had also the chance of gaining advantage of any slight breeze or movement of the air that might take place; and thus in every way he was a gainer.
At length he came to another brook, into which this one discharged itself. The new brook was very much larger; and though not quite so large as the stream where they had been fishing, still it was not much smaller. At first the only thought that came to Phil was, that he had come back to this very stream itself from which he had started; but soon, as he came to reflect upon the length of his wanderings, and upon the probability that many streams ran through the forest, he gave up this idea, and contented himself with following out the plan that he had adopted. This stream he thought might lead to some larger one, and that larger one to some river, which might eventually bring him to the habitations of man.
The fresh hopes that were now aroused within him lessened his fatigue, and stimulated him to new efforts. The bed of this stream was shallow and pebbly, sometimes deepening into pools, at other times bringing him into the midst of swamps, and grasses, and rushes; but, on the whole, it was no more difficult than its predecessor had been; and his progress was very satisfactory.
At length he came to a place where he saw something that sent a thrill of joy through his whole being.
It was a path!
It was an unmistakable path, narrow and rough, it is true, yet still a path. It seemed like one of those roads which are used in winter to draw logs out of the woods, or fuel; yet whatever its purpose might be, there it was; and here at last Phil saw something that proved that he was not cut off altogether from all association with human kind. That path seemed to promise escape, and seemed to lead him forth from the wilderness track to life and liberty.
He stood and looked at it long and carefully. It ran across the brook, and on either side it presented the same appearance. The question that now arose in his mind was, which side should he choose—the right or the left? There was nothing in the path that helped him to a decision; no footmarks were visible to show him where to go; he was left altogether to chance and to his own instincts.
At length he decided to take the path on the right hand side, and accordingly he at once went on in this direction. The path was about six feet wide, and was comparatively smooth; so smooth, indeed, that it seemed almost luxurious when compared with the irregularities of the brook, with its alternations of gravel and swamp, which was also deep in water. Here, then, Phil walked along rapidly, and was so full of hope that at every turn in the path he expected to see some house.
The path, as has been said, seemed like one of those which are used in the winter only for lumbering purposes. At the present time it bore no marks whatever of recent use. No traces of wheels were visible, no footprints of any kind; yet it was level, for the ordinary irregularities seemed to have been smoothed away by the attrition of logs which had been hauled over it.
Phil walked on for several hours. He was very much fatigued; but the new excitement that had arisen consequent upon this discovery had prevented him from giving way to his weariness, and had, in fact, roused him above it to such an extent that he was unconscious of it. His expectation of meeting with some signs of humanity clung to him incessantly as he walked along; and though he was constantly disappointed, yet he constantly hoped, and persisted in the hope, in spite of disappointments.
At length, it began to grow darker, and he saw that evening was coming on. He had been walking incessantly, with but one short rest, ever since eleven o’clock. Under ordinary circumstances he could not have maintained such a prolonged effort; and had he not met with this path he would have sought rest long before this. But his intense desire to escape, which had been stimulated by this discovery of the path, drew him on, and nerved him to new efforts. At the end of each hour he still hoped that the next hour would bring something; and so he kept on even after the darkness began to deepen. Now, as the darkness increased, the path grew less and less perceptible, and at last he happened to get out of it at a place where there was a wide opening in the woods. Leaving it here, he wandered about until he discovered that he had lost it altogether. On making this discovery, he made no effort either to retrace his steps, or to find out the lost path. He was too much worn out to think of doing either. He simply gave up.
A moss-covered mound was close beside him; and taking a seat here, he determined to remain for the night, and leave all further effort for the following day. He was fearfully fatigued, and utterly worn out. When he gave up he gave up completely. His only thought now was for his immediate wants, and those wants comprised the two essentials of food and rest. Rest he could find here, on the mossy mound, under the forest trees. As to food, thanks to his forethought and self-denial in the morning, something yet remained. It was that sandwich which he had reserved for a time of need. The time of need had come, and he drew the sandwich from his pocket.
He looked at it for a moment solemnly and thoughtfully. It was his last sandwich—the very last of his little stock of provisions. Should he eat it all, or should he still preserve a little of it? It seemed unwise to eat it all. He broke it into two portions, and wrapping one up carefully, he proceeded to eat the other. But on eating this he found his appetite unappeased, and his craving for more was irresistible. He unwrapped what he had reserved and looked at it. Should he eat it? Dare he eat it? To eat it would be to deprive himself of his last mouthful, and on the following morning he would have nothing with which to begin the day.
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He looked at that small fragment of food with longing eyes, and the longer he looked at it the more tempting did it seem, and the more irresistible did the temptation grow. At last he thought that it would be better to strengthen himself now after his long journey, and secure a good night’s rest.
On the morrow he could look out for food and get something to eat—somewhere, he knew not where—somehow, he knew not how. This thought appeased his cautious scruples. He hesitated no longer, but ate what remained of the sandwich.
And so his last particle of food was gone.
But he gave no thought to this. He was too tired, and worn out with exhaustion he lay down and fell asleep.
Clouds and Vapors.—The exhaustive Heat.—Thirst.—Muddy Water.—The Pangs of Hunger.—How to fish.—The River.—The placid Lake.—A Plunge into the Water.—The Midday Mead.—The Pine Woods.—The rocky Cavern.—Preparing a Night’s Rest.—The Evening Repast.—Night once more.ON waking the next morning, Phil’s first impulse was to look above and around to see what might be the prospects for the day. To his disappointment he found those prospects not at all changed for the better. Overhead he saw the rolling smoke clouds, which now were gloomier and denser than before, and still nearer the earth. The atmosphere caught from them a very perceptible odor, which showed the character of the clouds above, and was pungent enough to create some degree of irritation in the nose and throat. The spot where he was appeared to be somewhat more open than usual, and in some directions he could look over a space several rods in extent. In this direction the smoke haze was very apparent.
He felt both hungry and thirsty. But he had nothing whatever to eat, and knew it. He had eaten his last mouthful the evening before, and there was nothing whatever left now to satisfy the demands of his appetite. But for the present his thirst was stronger than his hunger; and so parched was his throat, and so painful was his craving for water, that he at once started up, and set out in search of some.
His object was now to regain that path which he had lost the night before, and follow it until he might find another brook, or at least a swamp. But though he sought most diligently, and most thoroughly, in all directions, still he could find no trace of it whatever. Bitter experience had already taught him his own utter incapability of finding his way back through these woods to any point from which he might have wandered, and so he soon gave up this search as useless: but in addition to this, his thirst was altogether too pressing to allow of any search after lost paths. The one thing of his desire became water, and so he turned his attention towards finding this first necessity. He did not have to undergo a very long trial. The woods were intersected in many places by small brooklets, and before long he came to a bog, in which he obtained sufficient water to allay his thirst. By carefully examining this, he found a place which was the outlet of a brook, and he now pursued the same course which had been followed by him the day before; that is, he walked along in the bed of the brook, hoping that it would lead to a stream.
As he walked along it grew larger and larger; other brooks joined it; and at length it ran into a stream which was quite as large as that one from which he had originally wandered. On reaching this he sat down on the bank and rested. The stream was about a dozen yards wide here, and the waters were shallow, running on among gravel and cobble stones. The banks were bordered with trees, which rose to the height of about forty feet, and threw their branches across the stream till they nearly met.
Sitting here and resting, Phil began to feel more hungry than ever. His walk had only served to sharpen his appetite, and the alleviation of his thirst had brought out his hunger more prominently. And now what could he do? To struggle forward all day without anything to eat would be almost impossible. Already he felt exhausted from his walk thus far without food; and to commence again seemed out of the question. In his hunger he now tried to find something in the woods. He tore up some grass, and chewed the roots; he peeled off some maple bark, and tried to chew this; but the grass roots and the maple bark had no perceptible effect in diminishing his hunger. At last he thought of his fishing line, which he had carried with him after throwing away the rod. Wondering why he had been so stupid as not to think of this before, he proceeded to search for a suitable rod. This he found after a short time, and attaching the line to the end of it, he proceeded to try his skill at fishing. He walked down the stream for some distance, but for some time he met with no success. He began to feel a little alarm, and to think that the heat and the smoke prevented the fish from rising, when suddenly, in the midst of his discouragement, he felt a nibble at the hook. He jerked it up, but missed his prey that time; still the circumstance encouraged him greatly, for it showed him that there was hope, and he continued his task with fresh spirit. At length, to his intense delight, he jerked out a fish. It was quite small, but still it was indescribably welcome; and without waiting any longer, Phil at once proceeded to kindle a fire. He did this with little difficulty, and placing the fish on the blazing sticks, he watched it until it seemed sufficiently cooked to be eaten. Although his hunger had made him too impatient to wait till the fish was thoroughly cooked, yet that same hunger made him indifferent to little deficiencies of this sort, and the half-raw trout seemed to him, without exception, the most delicious morsel that he had ever eaten. He now resumed his rod, and before long hauled out another, which was soon followed by another, and yet another. By this time the fire had died down to the coals, and on these Phil laid his fish. This time he waited until they were so thoroughly cooked that they would have satisfied the most fastidious appetite. On these Phil made a right royal repast; and this supply of food seemed to him to be sufficient for any effort that he might have to make that day. Before starting, however, he was provident enough to wait until he had caught three more trout, so as to secure himself from again coming so close to absolute starvation as he had been that morning; and then, putting these in his pocket, he rolled up very carefully his precious hook and line, and once more resumed his journey.
He had thus been able to satisfy both that thirst and that hunger which had each assailed him so fiercely on his first awaking; and this fact gave to him a glow of satisfaction, and a confidence in his own resources, which dispelled the last vestige of his gloom, and filled him with energy, and hope, and cheerfulness. In this frame of mind he set out on the renewal of his journey, not knowing any better than before where he was going, yet hoping for the best.
The brook ran on for some miles, receiving other brooks, and growing gradually larger. As a general thing, its bed afforded a sufficiently easy pathway for Phil to traverse, without any unusual exertion, and was preferable, on the whole, to the forest with its underbrush. Occasionally, however, he was able to take advantage of favorable openings among the trees, and on several occasions gained very much by taking short cuts, and avoiding certain bends in the river. On such short cuts it is needless to say that he never ventured, unless he was able to see plainly where he was going. In this way he went on for some hours, and in that time he certainly succeeded in getting-over a large extent of ground.
But such exertions as these were not made easily; and soon the energy with which he had started began to relax. He became more sensitive to the heat, and it seemed to him that the smoke was growing more dense and more distressing. He began to think that he must be drawing nearer to the fires from which all this smoke and this oppressive heat arose. The thought was a most disheartening one; for if it were true, it would transform what seemed to be his pathway to safety into a blind rush to danger, and make of no avail all his long struggles that he had put forth so perseveringly. It was a thought, indeed, which was too depressing for him to entertain, and so he strove to drive it from his mind; but it was one of those unpleasant ideas which cling to the mind in spite of itself, and so, notwithstanding Phil's efforts to hope for the best, there lowered over him a very dark and dismal foreboding that his present course would at length bring him face to face with the fire.
And what then?
All, that he could not tell.
Should he turn back now? No; that was a thing which he could not bear to think of. Wherever he was going, he could not turn back yet—not till he was convinced that it was all wrong—not till the very presence of the fire itself should force him to give up all hope of farther progress in this direction.
In spite of his surroundings of oppressive heat and distressing smoke, of rough pathways and alternating wood and water,—in spite of his fatigue of body, and despondency of mind,—Phil still kept on his course, and struggled most heroically to maintain his onward march, wherever it might lead. At length he reached a place where the stream ran in almost a straight line for a considerable distance; and looking down this, he could see at the farthest extremity the smoky haze; but at the same time he felt confident that it was not a whit denser than it had been in the morning. This discovery encouraged him; and now, if he felt the smoke and the heat more keenly, he was able, with great apparent reason, to attribute it solely to his own weariness of body.
“I will rest soon,” he thought. “I will take a long rest, and get something to eat, and that will be sure to restore me.”
With this thought he went on; and though he had made up his mind to rest, yet he kept constantly postponing the period of that rest. At length the stream took a turn round a wooded declivity, and as Phil went up this to cut across, he suddenly beheld lying immediately in front of him a small lake, into which the stream ran.
The sight of this at once decided him to make this wooded declivity his resting-place. So he took his seat here on the shore, and looked out upon the scene before him. The lake was of no very great extent, and was surrounded on all sides by trees. In front of Phil the beach was pebbly, and the waters clear and transparent; but on the right there was a wide extent covered over with green rushes, and water lilies, both yellow and white. As Phil looked forth upon this pleasant scene, the waters seemed so inviting and so clear, that he determined to take a bath. No sooner had he thought of this than he was on his feet again, and in a very short time had divested himself of his clothes and plunged in.
He plunged down into those sweet, clear, tranquil waters. As his head sank under the embrace of the cool flood, it seemed to convey new life and strength to every fibre of his wearied frame. It was one delicious moment in a day of toil and trouble. He struck out and swam far off into the middle of the lake. Then he dived again and again; and then, rolling over on his back, he lay floating, with his eyes closed, and his form reposing luxuriously upon its soft, watery couch. The water here was sufficiently clear and sufficiently deep for his purposes, the rushes and lilies were over upon the shore on one side, and there was nothing to mar his enjoyment. Here he forgot the heat and the smoke. The cool waters took away from him all that sense of oppression which he had so long felt, and when he at length landed, it was as though he had enjoyed some prolonged rest for hours, or some profound and refreshing slumber.
Now he resumed his clothes, and thought of those fish which he had been carrying. On examining them, he found them slightly stale, yet not at all crushed, and thereupon he proceeded to kindle a fire upon the shore of the lake. Thus far he had found no difficulty in making his fires, for he had matches with him, and there was no lack of dry twigs; so, in a short time, a fire sufficient for his purposes was blazing merrily. Phil was in no hurry; so, lying down near it, and leaning on one elbow, he watched it lazily, until sufficient coals had been formed, upon which he might lay his fish.
The fish this time were even superior to what they had been on a former occasion, for Phil’s practice had shown him, to some extent, how they could be broiled to the best advantage. All that they needed was a little salt and pepper; but he was too hungry to miss either of those seasonings. He found, indeed, in his case, the truth of the old saying, that hunger is the best relish; and never in his life had he eaten any meal with half the zest that he had known at the eventful meals of this eventful day. A draught of water from the running stream completed his repast, and he now lay down refreshed, and began to meditate over his journey. He had now rested for nearly two hours, and he began to feel like resuming his march. It would be necessary, he saw, to walk around the lake till he found its outlet, and then go along as before, and keep on as long as his strength might hold out.
Once more, then, he rose strong, eager, resolute, and cheerful, hoping for the best, and willing to go on in this course until he reached some destination, wherever that might be. He walked along the lake shore, and on reaching the other end, he found the outlet. This was nothing more than a continuation of the stream down which he had been going, but there was more water, for the lake probably received other contributions; and what was more important, the bottom was muddy. Fortunately, however, the woods here were free from underbrush, so that he had no difficulty in walking through them, keeping the stream in sight. After going about a mile or so, he found, to his great delight, that he had come to a pine forest. To him, after his long, rough walk, this fact gave the greatest possible joy. For now the trees rose up around him at wide intervals, and no tangled underbrush stood in his way, forcing him to wind through them or lose himself in the attempt to go around it. The pine forest allowed him to choose his own course and walk almost as freely as though he were in an open field. Besides, the ground under his feet gave a firm foothold. It was not like the soft moss or long ferns of the other woods; it was not like the pebbly bed of the stream; it was hard, and smooth, and afforded an easy pathway.
As Phil went on, he noticed that the stream grew much wider, though it still remained shallow. Its waters flowed sometimes in the middle of the bed, sometimes on the right bank, and sometimes towards the left; while again they distributed themselves over the whole of its wide bed, and brawled, and gurgled, and bubbled onward among the stones and pebbles with which its bed was again filled. At one place its channel divided, and a little island covered with trees arose in the midst, while the waters, after flowing past in two streams, once more reunited. About a half mile below this another stream joined it, and the waters were very considerably increased.
Phil walked along for several hours, and at length began to feel once more that excessive weariness which he had felt before bathing in the lake. Once more the atmosphere grew exceedingly oppressive, and the smoke distressed him. At length he came to a ledge of rocks, by the borders of the stream. As he came up he noticed something like an opening, and walked towards it. He saw that a huge mass of rock lay tilted over and resting against another mass in such a way that it formed a covered chamber about ten feet long and six feet wide. The floor was a flat, rough rock, and the end consisted of damp moss. Immediately beside this the stream flowed along in a deeper channel than usual, for all its waters had gathered on this side, leaving the rest of its bed bare. Phil was so struck with the appearance of this place that he examined it quite closely, and began to think that it would be an excellent place to pass the night in. He could not have found it at a better time. Already it was growing a little dusk, and he was thoroughly worn out. In fact he was so tired that after stopping here one minute he found it impossible to go forward any farther; so he at once resolved to stay.
On the top of the rock was a quantity of moss, and as he was going to pass the night here he proceeded to gather it, and collected a sufficient quantity to make a comfortable couch when strewed on the rocky floor of his little cave. But there were other things to do before he should be able to rest. He was once more in a state of starvation, and the only thing for him to do was to resort to his fishing-line. He found a pole without much trouble, and then threw his line. At first he met with no success. But he persevered, and walked farther up the stream till he came to a place that looked more favorable. Here his efforts were crowned with success, for in a little time he had hooked no less than six trout, one of which was large enough for a meal by itself.
After this he took a bath in the running stream, and felt once more the same invigorating and restorative effects from the cool water which he had experienced during his bath in the lake.
Then he kindled his fire on the edge of the stream, near his cave, and cooked two of the fish, reserving the others for the next morning.
This meal was as great a success as the former ones had been, and at length he retired to the little cave where he had already spread the moss for a bed. Here he could not help recalling the events of the day. He had hoped, on starting, by this time to have reached some human abode. He had not done so. But this, instead of exciting his regrets, gave way altogether to emotions of gratitude. He had been saved from thirst and from hunger in a most wonderful manner, and, even at this moment, instead of feeling utterly exhausted, he had little else than a sense of languid weariness. All this filled him with thankfulness, and kneeling down in his little cave, he offered up his most grateful thanks to the merciful Being who had protected his wanderings during the day.
After this he lay down on his moss and soon fell asleep.
Bart.—An anxious Night.—Suspicions.—Reappearance of Pat.—The Woes of Pat.—A hideous Thought.—The Leper.—Off to the Woods.—Indian File.—The Rear Guard.—Defection of Pat.—He makes a Circuit.—“Hyar! Hyar! You dar? Whar Mas’r Bart?”THE sight of the lurid glow which had burst upon Bart’s eyes as he looked from the priest’s house excited within him anxious thoughts, which kept him awake for hours on that night; the thought that Phil was wandering in those woods, and that all around him were these wrathful flames; the thought that perhaps he might have already fallen a victim; the thought that his search could scarcely be made now, since they could hardly hope to penetrate the woods for any distance; the thought that now any search, however extensive, might perhaps be too late. He slept but little. Every little while he would rise from his bed, and look out of the window towards the woods, to see if that lurid glow continued. It was visible for a long time, but at length died out altogether. But this did not lessen Bart’s anxieties, for now the smoke grew thicker, and the smell of it was most unpleasantly perceptible, exciting the very natural thought that the fire glow was no longer visible, not because the fires were extinguished, but rather because the smoke had grown so dense that it hid it from view.
When Bart arose it was not yet daybreak, and on coming down stairs no one was visible. He went out of doors, and paced up and down the road uneasily. After a while two men made their appearance, whom Bart recognized as the ones who were to be the guides in their exploration of the forest. He felt too anxious and too sick at heart to ask them anything, for he thought that anything they would say would only confirm his worst fears, and as yet he did not wish to know the worst. He wished to cling to his hopes, faint though they now were, until hope should be no longer possible. After a while Solomon made his appearance; but Bart had nothing to say to him, and the old man, seeing by his manner that he did not wish to be spoken to, held aloof, and sat down in silence on the doorstep.
It was now day, and still the priest had not made his appearance. Bart wondered at this, and attributed it to his oversleeping himself. This made him feel somewhat impatient, and he thought hardly of the priest for yielding to his drowsiness at such a time as this, when it was a question of life and death; but he waited, and checked a rising impulse which he had to hunt up the priest’s bedroom and wake him. While he was fretting and fuming, the two French guides had placidly seated themselves on the doorstep in a line with Solomon, and began to smoke, chatting with one another in French.
Suddenly Bart heard footsteps behind him. He thought it was the priest, and turned hastily. It was not the priest, however, but Pat. Bart had actually forgotten Pat’s existence ever since that moment on the previous evening, when he had gone out doors to look for him, and had seen that terrible appearance over the forest trees. As he now recognized him, he wondered at his long absence, and noticed at the same time that Pat looked very much agitated. At once he thought that Pat had heard bad news, and had come to tell him. This idea was so terrible that he stood paralyzed, and could scarcely utter a word.
Pat came up and gave a heavy sigh.
“It’s dhreadful—it’s terrible. Och, wurrooooo!” Bart looked at him with an awful face, not daring to ask the question that was upon his lips, and now feeling sure that Pat had heard the worst.
“Och, what’ll we iver do?” cried Pat; “what’ll we iver do? Sure an me heart’s fairly broke widin me, so it is.”
“How did you find it out?” asked Bart, in a trembling voice.
“Sure an wasn’t it the praste himself that tould me,” said Pat, in a tone of voice that sounded like a wail of despair.
“The priest?” said Bart. “You saw him then—did you. Where—where is he?”
“The praste,” said Pat, dolefully; “sorra one o’ me knows. I seen him dhrivin off. I wor sleepin undher a tray behind the fince. I wasn’t goin to thrust mesilf in their leper houses, so I wasn’t.”
“You saw him. P—he has gone, has he—gone—to—to—to see about it,” stammered Bart, feverishly; “and what did he tell you?”
“Tell me?” said Pat, dubiously.
“Yes. You said you saw him.”
“So I did.”
“Well—what did he say about it?”
“Sure an he didn’t say anythin jist thin.”
“But he told you about it, you said.”
“So he did; but it was last night.”
“O, in the night—you saw him in the night—he must have been out then—and I thought he was in bed. O, why wasn’t I with him? Why didn’t he take me? But I suppose he thought I’d be too much overcome, and so he didn’t want to tell me—and did he tell you this, Pat? Tell me all. Tell me all—don’t keep me in suspense.”
At these incoherent words Pat stared at Bart in utter amazement, and for a moment thought that he had lost his senses.
“Suspinse?” he said—“suspinse? What do you mean? You talk as though you’d lost your sivin sinsis! Sure an didn’t you hear it yerself, ivery word? Sure an worn’t ye in the room yourself, listhening? Didn’t ye hear it all?”
“Hear it all? Hear what?” cried Bart. “About what?”
“Why, about the lepers, sure. Sorra a thought I’ve had iver since, except about that same. And I went off, so I did; for I didn’t dare to slape in that leper house, wid a man that lives among the lepers and shakes hands wid them.”
“The lepers!” cried Bart in impatience, but with a feeling of inexpressible relief—the relief which is felt at a respite, however brief, from sorrow. “The lepers! Why, I was talking about Phil. Have you heard anything about Phil?”
“Phil?” said Pat. “Arrah, sure he’s all right. I ony wish I wor in his shoes. It ud be a happy boy I’d be if I cud change places wid Phil. Och, wurroo—but it’s a bitther day whin I came to this place.”
“You haven’t heard anything at all about Phil, then?” said Bart.
“Niver a word,” said Pat. “I’ve heard too much about other things.”
Bart turned away.
As for Pat, he wandered disconsolately to the fence by the road side, and leaning against it, he stood there in a woe-begone attitude,—the very picture of despair.
Bart now resumed his melancholy walk; but before he had taken many paces, he heard the rapid gallop of a horse, and in turning, he saw a rider approaching the house, who, on drawing nearer, turned out to be the priest. Bart now saw that he had done his kind host a great injustice in supposing that he had been oversleeping himself, and felt a natural sorrow at his suspicions. As the priest dismounted, the very first words which he addressed to Bart made the compunction of the latter over his unjust suspicions still stronger, since they showed that, so far from sleeping while Bart was wakeful, in his anxiety over Phil, he had left Bart in bed, and had been traversing the country for miles, in order to institute a general search after the lost boy.
“I took a few hours’ sleep,” said he, “and rose between one and two. I’ve been up the road for twelve or fifteen miles, and have persuaded a number of people to make a search of the woods as far as they are able to. They are all full of the deepest anxiety about the poor lad, and you may rest assured that the good people will do all in their power for him. My people are not very intellectual, nor are they what you call progressive; but they are affectionate, simple-hearted, and brave; and there is not one of them that I have spoken to who will have any peace until that poor lad’s fate is decided. So when we go off to search after him, you may console yourself with the thought that our party is but one out of several that are engaged in the same search.”
At this disclosure of the real business of the priest, Bart was so overcome with mingled emotions, that he could scarcely say a word. He could only murmur some confused expressions of gratitude.
“O, never mind me,” said the priest, “and my poor efforts. I assure you I am as eager to find him as you are. Pray to God, my boy. He only can save your friend. And now let us set out at once.”
With these words the priest hurried up to the two guides, and spoke a few words to them in French. The guides answered, and after a short conversation the priest went into the house. The guides took his horse and put him in the stable; and by the time they had returned, the priest came out, and they all went off towards the woods.
“Don’t be discouraged,” said the priest to Bart, “about the fires. After all, they may have driven your friend away in this direction. For you see he would naturally keep as far as possible away from them, and as they advanced he would retreat. And so, if they are really coming in this direction, he would be forced to come this way too. If so, I think some of my friends would be likely to meet with him. The only real danger is, that he may be tired out, and be unable to endure the fatigue. But you say he is an active boy, and that he had a little food with him; and so I really think that there is every reason for hope. You must try, then, to keep up your spirits, and remember that even if we don’t find him he may yet be safe, and may meet with others; or he may even get out of the woods unassisted.”
These words were very encouraging to Bart, and excited his best hopes. As he was naturally light-hearted and sanguine, he determined to struggle against his depression, and cling as long as possible to the hopes that the present held out. The consequence was, that he at once surmounted his gloom, and dismissed from his mind those desponding thoughts which had taken possession of him ever since he saw the glow of the fire. He became more like his old self, and commenced the exploring tour, full of life, and energy, and hope.
Far different was it with Pat. His trouble arose from a dark, dreadful terror which had taken full possession of him, and which not even his buoyancy of soul and natural cheerfulness could withstand. It was the terror that had been awakened by the mention of the leprosy.
And so it was that as the party entered the woods, Pat held back; and he who was usually among the first, now lingered the last. He had a terrible fear that he had run a risk of catching the loathsome disease by bathing in what he considered the “leper waters,” and by entering the house of one who was on such familiar terms with the lepers as the priest professed to be. It seemed to him, now, that the only possible chance that remained for him was to keep as far away from the priest as possible. He remembered with horror that he had eaten at the priest’s house on the preceding evening. He had not eaten anything that morning, nor had any of them as yet; for the guides carried provisions, and it was intended to breakfast in the woods. But to Pat all thoughts of eating were obnoxious; the sickening thought of the leprosy drove away all his appetite; and if he followed them into the woods, it was at a distance; and then only because there still remained a loyal regard for Phil, and thus the tables were completely turned. Bart, who the day before had been despondent, was now hopeful; while Pat, who had then been the hopeful one, had now sunk down into a state of depression to which language fails to do justice.
After walking into the woods for some distance, they sat down and made a breakfast off some ham and crackers, which were carried by the guides. Pat sat at a distance from the rest, and resolutely refused all invitations to partake, pleading a slight sickness; nor was poor Pat’s plea altogether a feigned one; for by this time he had worked himself into a state of utter panic, and the miserable feelings resulting from his loss of a night’s sleep and from hunger were attributed by him to the approach of leprosy. So poor Pat stood aloof from the rest, pale, anxious, and already beginning to think that he had made a great mistake in accompanying them at all. The more he thought upon this, the more convinced did he become that his presence there in company with them was both unnecessary and unwise,—unnecessary, for, as it now seemed to him, Phil was perfectly able to take care of himself; and unwise, for he was only destroying his chance of escape from the leprosy, by thus remaining in the company of those who had its terrible seeds clinging to their clothes and to their persons.
A prey thus to his anxiety, Pat’s generous desire to help Phil gradually weakened in the presence of his instinct of self-preservation, and his belief that Phil was safe somewhere made him all the more eager to secure safety for himself. The wretchedness which he felt, from the loss of his night’s rest, and want of food, and terror, all combined, tended to turn all his thoughts upon himself; and the more wretched he felt, the more did he attribute it to the awful disease which he so greatly dreaded. And so, at last, by the time they had finished their repast, Pat had felt so overcome by his terrors, that he determined, at all hazards, to free himself from his dangerous associates, and escape somewhere before it was too late. Having thus made up his mind, it only remained to find some favorable opportunity of slipping away unobserved, and thus securing that safety for which he longed.
After their breakfast they began to go forward. The two guides of course went first, one behind the other. Then followed the priest, and after him came Bart. Pat wanted Solomon to go next; but Solomon declined, from a feeling of humility natural to him, which made him seek the lowest—that is to say, the last—place on the line of march, and partly also from a desire to be in the rear, so as to see that no one straggled away. Thus they all went on in Indian file, and after Bart came Pat, while Solomon brought up the rear.
As they thus went on, one after the other, in Indian file, through the woods, it was, of course, impossible for any one to see all the rest of the party. It was enough if each one should see the one who might be immediately in front. This was especially the case when the woods grew thicker and the march more laborious. Bart then could only see the priest; and Pat, Bart; while Solomon could only see Pat. In this way they went on then, and this mode of progress soon suggested to Pat a simple, easy, and perfectly natural mode of separating himself from the others. He had only to slacken his pace a little for a short distance. He had only to fall back slightly, and he would easily be able to put between himself and the others such obstacles that they would be able neither to see him nor to find him. This, now, became his fixed resolve.
So, as he went on, Pat allowed Bart to go gradually farther and farther ahead, until at length he was out of sight. But even then he was not satisfied. He still kept on, but chose a course which swerved slightly from the one which the others were following; and entering upon this course, he sought to make it more and more apart from the track of the others. As he went along he kept constantly turning to the right, and thus before long he had made a complete circuit; and then, when he thought he had turned far enough to be heading towards the place from which he set out, he tried to go in a straight line. In all this he was completely successful; that is to say, so far as concerned his desire not to be noticed; and so he kept on for so long a time that at length he began to be on the lookout for the open land and the sea.
But suddenly there was a loud cry behind him,—
“Hyar, Hyar! you dar! Whar Mas’r Bart?”
It was Solomon.
Pat had forgotten all about Solomon; but now he remembered that Solomon had been behind him, and he saw that he must have been following him all the time, though he had been too excited to be conscious of that important fact.