h blood that he was reduced almost to the last stage of exhaustion,
and that another hour or two would probably see the close of his earthly
career. Nothing, perhaps, could have impressed this truth upon him so
forcibly as his inability to shout when he tried to do so.

In the faint hope that Fergus might be within call, he raised his voice
with the full knowledge that he ran the risk of attracting a foe instead
of a comrade. The sound that complied with the impulse of his will
would have made him laugh if he had not felt an amazing and
unaccountable disposition to cry. Up to that period of his life--almost
from his earliest babyhood--Dan Davidson's capacious chest had always
contained the machinery, and the power, to make the nursery or the
welkin ring with almost unparalleled violence. Now, the chest, though
still capacious, and still full of the machinery, seemed to have totally
lost the power, for the intended shout came forth in a gasp and ended in
a sigh.

It was much the same when he essayed to rise. His legs almost refused
to support him; everything appeared to swim before his eyes, and he sank
down again listlessly on the ground. For the first time, perhaps, in
his life, the strong man had the conviction effectually carried home to
him that he was mortal, and could become helpless. The advantage of
early training by a godly mother became apparent in this hour of
weakness, for his first impulse was to pray for help, and the resulting
effect--whether men choose to call it natural or supernatural--was at
least partial relief from anxiety, and that degree of comfort which
almost invariably arises from a state of resignation.

After a brief rest, the power of active thought revived a little, and
Dan, again raising himself on one elbow, tried to rouse himself to the
necessity of immediate action of some sort if his life was to be saved.

The spot on which he had lain, or rather fallen down, on the preceding
night happened to be the fringe of the forest where it bordered on an
extensive plain or stretch of prairie land. It was surrounded by a
dense growth of trees and bushes, except on the side next the plain,
where an opening permitted of an extensive view over the undulating
country. No better spot could have been chosen, even in broad daylight,
for an encampment, than had been thus fallen upon by the hunter in the
darkness of night.

But the poor man felt at once that this advantage could be of no avai