weakness；　what　if　the　animal　attacked　him？　　He　drew　himself　up　to
  his　most　imposing　stature；　gripping　the　knife　and　staring　hard　at
  the　bear。　　The　bear　advanced　clumsily　a　couple　of　steps；　reared　up；
  and　gave　vent　to　a　tentative　growl。　　If　the　man　ran；　he　would　run
  after　him；　but　the　man　did　not　run。　　He　was　animated　now　with　the
  courage　of　fear。　　He；　too；　growled；　savagely；　terribly；　voicing　the
  fear　that　is　to　life　germane　and　that　lies　twisted　about　life's
  deepest　roots。
  The　bear　edged　away　to　one　side；　growling　menacingly；　himself
  appalled　by　this　mysterious　creature　that　appeared　upright　and
  unafraid。　　But　the　man　did　not　move。　　He　stood　like　a　statue　till
  the　danger　was　past；　when　he　yielded　to　a　fit　of　trembling　and　sank
  down　into　the　wet　moss。
  He　pulled　himself　together　and　went　on；　afraid　now　in　a　new　way。
  It　was　not　the　fear　that　he　should　die　passively　from　lack　of　food；
  but　that　he　should　be　destroyed　violently　before　starvation　had
  exhausted　the　last　particle　of　the　endeavor　in　him　that　made　toward
  surviving。　　There　were　the　wolves。　　Back　and　forth　across　the
  desolation　drifted　their　howls；　weaving　the　very　air　into　a　fabric
  of　menace　that　was　so　tangible　that　he　found　himself；　arms　in　the
  air；　pressing　it　back　from　him　as　it　might　be　the　walls　of　a　wind…
  blown　tent。
  Now　and　again　the　wolves；　in　packs　of　two　and　three；　crossed　his
  path。　　But　they　sheered　clear　of　him。　　They　were　not　in　sufficient
  numbers；　and　besides　they　were　hunting　the　caribou；　which　did　not
  battle；　while　this　strange　creature　that　walked　erect　might　scratch
  and　bite。
  In　the　late　afternoon　he　came　upon　scattered　bones　where　the　wolves
  had　made　a　kill。　　The　debris　had　been　a　caribou　calf　an　hour
  before；　squawking　and　running　and　very　much　alive。　　He　contemplated
  the　bones；　clean…picked　and　polished；　pink　with　the　cell…life　in
  them　which　had　not　yet　died。　　Could　it　possibly　be　that　he　might　be
  that　ere　the　day　was　done！　　Such　was　life；　eh？　　A　vain　and　fleeting
  thing。　　It　was　only　life　that　pained。　　There　was　no　hurt　in　death。
  To　die　was　to　sleep。　　It　meant　cessation；　rest。　　Then　why　was　he
  not　content　to　die？
  But　he　did　not　moralize　long。　　He　was　squatting　in　the　moss；　a　bone
  in　his　mouth；　sucking　at　the　shreds　of　life　that　still　dyed　it
  faintly　pink。　　The　sweet　meaty　taste；　thin　and　elusive　almost　as　a
  memory；　maddened　him。　　He　closed　his　jaws　on　the　bones　and
  crunched。　　Sometimes　it　was　the　bone　that　broke；　sometimes　his
  teeth。　　Then　he　crushed　the　bones　between　rocks；　pounded　them　to　a
  pulp；　and　swallowed　them。　　He　pounded　his　fingers；　too；　in　his
  haste；　and　yet　found　a　moment　in　which　to　feel　surprise　at　the　fact
  that　his　fingers　did　not　hurt　much　when　caught　under　the　descending
  rock。
  Came　frightful　days　of　snow　and　rain。　　He　did　not　know　when　he　made
  camp；　when　he　broke　camp。　　He　travelled　in　the　night　as　much　as　in
  the　day。　　He　rested　wherever　he　fell；　crawled　on　whenever　the　dying
  life　in　him　flickered　up　and　burned　less　dimly。　　He；　as　a　man；　no
  longer　strove。　　It　was　the　life　in　him；　unwilling　to　die；　that
  drove　him　on。　　He　did　not　suffer。　　His　nerves　had　become　blunted；
  numb；　while　his　mind　was　filled　with　weird　visions　and　delicious
  dreams。
  But　ever　he　sucked　and　chewed　on　the　crushed　bones　of　the　caribou
  calf；　the　least　remnants　of　which　he　had　gathered　up　and　carried
  with　him。　　He　crossed　no　more　hills　or　divides；　but　automatically
  followed　a　large　stream　which　flowed　through　a　wide　and　shallow
  valley。　　He　did　not　see　this　stream　nor　this　valley。　　He　saw
  nothing　save　visions。　　Soul　and　body　walked　or　crawled　side　by
  side；　yet　apart；　so　slender　was　the　thread　that　bound　them。
  He　awoke　in　his　right　mind；　lying　on　his　back　on　a　rocky　ledge。
  The　sun　was　shining　bright　and　warm。　　Afar　off　he　heard　the
  squawking　of　caribou　calves。　　He　was　aware　of　vague　memories　of
  rain　and　wind　and　snow；　but　whether　he　had　been　beaten　by　the　storm
  for　two　days　or　two　weeks　he　did　not　know。
  For　some　time　he　lay　without　movement；　the　genial　sunshine　pouring
  upon　him　and　saturating　his　miserable　body　with　its　warmth。　　A　fine
  day；　he　thought。　　Perhaps　he　could　manage　to　locate　himself。　　By　a
  painful　effort　he　rolled　over　on　his　side。　　Below　him　flowed　a　wide
  and　sluggish　river。　　Its　unfamiliarity　puzzled　him。　　Slowly　he
  followed　it　with　his　eyes；　winding　in　wide　sweeps　among　the　bleak；
  bare　hills；　bleaker　and　barer　and　lower…lying　than　any　hills　he　had
  yet　encountered。　　Slowly；　deliberately；　without　excitement　or　more
  than　the　most　casual　interest；　he　followed　the　course　of　the
  strange　stream　toward　the　sky…line　and　saw　it　emptying　into　a
  bright　and　shining　sea。　　He　was　still　unexcited。　　Most　unusual；　he
  thought；　a　vision　or　a　mirage　…　more　likely　a　vision；　a　trick　of
  his　disordered　mind。　　He　was　confirmed　in　this　by　sight　of　a　ship
  lying　at　anchor　in　the　midst　of　the　shining　sea。　　He　closed　his
  eyes　for　a　while；　then　opened　them。　　Strange　how　the　vision
  persisted！　　Yet　not　strange。　　He　knew　there　were　no　seas　or　ships
  in　the　heart　of　the　barren　lands；　just　as　he　had　known　there　was　no
  cartridge　in　the　empty　rifle。
  He　heard　a　snuffle　behind　him　…　a　half…choking　gasp　or　cough。　　Very
  slowly；　because　of　his　exceeding　weakness　and　stiffness；　he　rolled
  over　on　his　other　side。　　He　could　see　nothing　near　at　hand；　but　he
  waited　patiently。　　Again　came　the　snuffle　and　cough；　and　outlined
  between　two　jagged　rocks　not　a　score　of　feet　away　he　made　out　the
  gray　head　of　a　wolf。　　The　sharp　ears　were　not　pricked　so　sharply　as
  he　had　seen　them　on　other　wolves；　the　eyes　were　bleared　and
  bloodshot；　the　head　seemed　to　droop　limply　and　forlornly。　　The
  animal　blinked　continually　in　the　sunshine。　　It　seemed　sick。　　As　he
  looked　it　snuffled　and　coughed　again。
  This；　at　least；　was　real；　he　thought；　and　turned　on　the　other　side
  so　that　he　might　see　the　reality　of　the　world　which　had　been　veiled
  from　him　before　by　the　vision。　　But　the　sea　still　shone　in　the
  distance　and　the　ship　was　plainly　discernible。　　Was　it　reality；
  after　all？　　He　closed　his　eyes　for　a　long　while　and　thought；　and
  then　it　came　to　him。　　He　had　been　making　north　by　east；　away　from
  the　Dease　Divide　and　into　the　Coppermine　Valley。　　This　wide　and
  sluggish　river　was　the　Coppermine。　　That　shining　sea　was　the　Arctic
  Ocean。　　That　ship　was　a　whaler；　strayed　east；　far　east；　from　the
  mouth　of　the　Mackenzie；　and　it　was　lying　at　anchor　in　Coronation
  Gulf。　　He　remembered　the　Hudson　Bay　Company　chart　he　had　seen　long
  ago；　and　it　was　all　clear　and　reasonable　to　him。
  He　sat　up　and　turned　his　attention　to　immediate　affairs。　　He　had
  worn　through　the　blanket…wrappings；　and　his　feet　were　shapeless
  lumps　of　raw　meat。　　His　last　blanket　was　gone。　　Rifle　and　knife
  were　both　missing。　　He　had　lost　his　hat　somewhere；　with　the　bunch
  of　matches　in　the　band；　but　the　matches　against　his　chest　were　safe
  and　dry　inside　the　tobacco　pouch　and　oil　paper。　　He　looked　at　his
  watch。　　It　marked　eleven　o'clock　and　was　still　running。　　Evidently
  he　had　kept　it　wound。
  He　was　calm　and　collected。　　Though　extremely　weak；　he　had　no
  sensation　of　pain。　　He　was　not　hungry。　　The　thought　of　food　was　not
  even　pleasant　to　him；　and　whatever　he　did　was　done　by　his　reason
  alone。　　He　ripped　off　his　pants'　legs　to　the　knees　and　bound　them
  about　his　feet。　　Somehow　he　had　succeeded　in　retaining　the　tin
  bucket。　　He　would　have　some　hot　water　before　he　began　what　he
  foresaw　was　to　be　a　terrible　journey　to　the　ship。
  His　movements　were　slow。　　He　shook　as　with　a　palsy。　　When　he
  started　to　collect　dry　moss；　he　found　he　could　not　rise　to　his
  feet。　　He　tried　again　and　again；　then　contented　himself　with
  crawling　about　on　hands　and　knees。　　Once　he　crawled　near　to　the
  sick　wolf。　　The　animal　dragged　itself　reluctantly　out　of　his　way；
  licking　its　chops　with　a　tongue　which　seemed　hardly　to　have　the
  strength　to　curl。　　The　man　noticed　that　the　tongue　was　not　the
  customary　healthy　red。　　It　was　a　yellowish　brown　and　seemed　coated
  with　a　rough　and　half…dry　mucus。
  After　he　had　drunk　a　quart　of　hot　water　the　man　found　he　was　able
  to　stand；　and　even　to　walk　as　well　as　a　dying　man　might　be　supposed
  to　walk。　　Every　minute　or　so　he　was　compelled　to　rest。　　His　steps
  were　feeble　and　uncertain；　just　as　the　wolf's　that　trailed　him　were
  feeble　and　uncertain；　and　that　night；　when　the　shining　sea　was
  blotted　out　by　blackness；　he　knew　he　was　nearer　to　it　by　no　more
  than　four　miles。
  Throughout　the　night　he　heard　the　cough　of　the　sick　wolf；　and　now
  and　then　the　squawking　of　the　caribou　calves。　　There　was　life　all
  around　him；　but　it　was　strong　life；　very　much　alive　and　well；　and
  he　knew　the　sick　wolf　clung　to　the　sick　man's　trail　in　the　hope
  that　the　man　would　die　first。　　In　the　morning；　on　opening　his　eyes；
  he　beheld　it　r