His was a powerful system, needing much nourishment,
and he must eat. That hunger became so great that it was acute
physical pain. He was assailed by it at all points, and it could
be repelled by only one thing, food. He must go forth, taking
all risks, and seek it.
He put on fresh wood, covering it with ashes in order that it
might not blaze too high, and left the islet. The stepping
stones were slippery with water, and his moccasins soon became
soaked again, but he forgot the cold and wet in that ferocious
hunger, the attacks of which became more violent every minute.
He was hopeful that he might see a deer, or even a squirrel, but
the animals themselves were likely to keep under cover in such a
rain. He expected a hard hunt, and it would be attended also by
much danger - these woods must be full of Indians - but be
thought little of the risk. His hunger was taking complete
possession of his mind. He was realizing now that one might want
a thing so much that it would drive away all other thoughts.
Rifle in hand, ready for any quick shot, he searched hour after
hour through the woods and thickets. He was wet, bedraggled, and
as fierce as a famishing panther, but neither skill nor instinct
guided him to anything.
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