est resembled a misfit
glove, the fingers hanging in shreds. The hand connected with the body
of a man lying close against the opposite side of the log. The legs
from the knees down were gone; the remainder of the man was a mass of
burned flesh and rags. Near the stump of the right arm lay a charred
kerosene can.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Under the trapper's guidance the party left the burned camp behind
them. They pushed on in silence, following mechanically the tall,
lank figure of the old man ahead of their single file. He led them up
timbered ridges and along their spines; he swerved down into swampy
hollows choked with wind-slash, around which they were obliged to make
tedious detours. The fine drizzle had turned into a steady soft rain
that pattered on the broad moose-hopple leaves. Often they plunged
into swamp mud nearly to their knees. The fallen logs over which they
climbed were as slippery as wet glass--the branch spikes on these logs
as dangerous under slipping feet as upturned pitchforks. The men were
top-heavy under their packs; the women uncomplaining and soaked to
their skins. The moist air was still impregnated with the scent of
smoke--a sinister odour which kept in their minds the events of the
morning.

During such a forced march in the wilderness conversation is
difficult; one is content with one's own thoughts. Under the
mental and physical strain they were enduring their bodies moved
automatically. During this unconscious process of locomotion one
can dream over one's thoughts and still go on. Legs and arms move
themselves; sore muscles become reconciled to their burden--they
become numb; the mind is thus left alone in peace.

Alice Thayor's thought was occupied with the incidents leading to her
last evening with Sperry. Every feature stood out in bold relief. Even
the tones of the doctor's voice rang clear. As these thoughts crowded
in, one after another, her brain reeled, her eyes became dim. Missing
her footing she sank back in the mud, steadied herself against a tree,
brushing the damp hair out of her eyes and staggered on, her gaze
fixed upon the swaying pack ahead of her fastened to the Clown's
shoulders.

The old dog now fell out of file; she felt his steaming muzzle bump
under the palm of her hand. Since they started from their refuge
across Big Shanty Brook the old dog had gone thus from one to the
other. Twice she had patted him; she wanted him near her now in her
weariness, but