After that he set cut in the direction in which he
thought he would find Lac Bain.
Still he shouted for Dixon, and fired an occasional shot from his
rifle. By noon he should have struck the lake. Noon came and passed;
the gloom of a second night fell upon him. He built himself a fire,
and ate two-thirds of what remained of the bacon. The handful of flour
in his pocket he did not disturb.
It was still night when he broke his rest and struggled on. His first
fears were gone. In place of them, there filled him now a grim sort of
pleasure. A second time he was battling with death for Melisse. And
this, after all, was not a very hard fight for him. He had feared
death in the red plague, but he did not fear the thought of this death
that threatened him in the big snows. It thrilled him, instead, with a
strange sort of exhilaration. If he died, it would be for Melisse, and
for all time she would remember him for what he had done.
When he ate the last bit of his bacon, he made up his mind what he
would do when the end came. In the stock of his rifle he would scratch
a few last words to Melisse. He even arranged the words in his brain--
four of them--"Melisse, I love you." He repeated them to himself as he
staggered on, and that night, beside the fire he built, he began by
carving her name.
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