In two days he could certainly walk and hunt
game or make a try for "The Alcove," so far as his ankle was
concerned, but would hunger overpower him before that time?
Gaining strength in one direction, he was losing it in another.
Now he began to grow angry with himself. The light inroad that
famine made upon his will was telling. It seemed incredible that
he, so powerful, so skillful, so self reliant, so long used to
the wilderness and to every manner of hardship, should be held
there in a snowbank by a bruised ankle to die like a crippled
rabbit. His comrades could not be more than ten miles away. He
could walk. He would walk! He stood upright and stepped out
into the snow, but pain, so agonizing that he could scarcely keep
from crying out, shot through his whole body, and he sank back
into the shelter, sure not to make such an experiment again for
another full day.
The day passed much like its predecessor, except that he took
down the blanket cover of his snow hut and kindled up his fire
again, more for the sake of cheerfulness than for warmth, because
he was not suffering from cold. There was a certain life and
light about the coals and the bright flame, but the relief did
not last long, and by and by he let it go out.
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