"Thoreau, God be
praised--"
He staggered, and fell in the snow. Jan dragged him back to the
shelter.
"I will have water for you--and something to eat--very soon," he said.
His voice sounded unreal. There was a mistiness before his eyes which
was not caused by the storm, a twisting of strange shadows that
bothered his vision, and made him sway dizzily when he threw off his
pack to stir the fire. He suspended his two small pails over the
embers, which he coaxed into a blaze. Both he filled with snow; into
one he emptied the handful of flour that he had carried in his pocket
--into the other he put tea. Fifteen minutes later he carried them to
the Englishman.
Dixon sat up, a glazed passion filling his eyes. He drank the hot tea
greedily, and as greedily ate the boiled flour-pudding. Jan watched
him hungrily until the last crumb of it was gone. He refilled the
pails with snow, added more tea, and then rejoined the Englishman. New
life was already shining in Dixon's eyes.
"Not a moment too soon, Thoreau," he said thankfully, reaching over to
grip the other's hand.
"Another night and--" Suddenly he stopped. "Great Heaven, what is the
matter?"
He noticed for the first time the pinched torture in his companion's
face. Jan's head dropped weakly upon his breast.
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