An hallucination began to trouble him. He felt confident thatone cartridge remained to him. It was in the chamber of therifle and he had overlooked it. On the other hand， he knew allthe time that the chamber was empty. But the hallucinationpersisted. He fought it off for hours， then threw his rifle openand was confronted with emptiness. The disappointmentwas as bitter as though he had really expected to find thecartridge.
He plodded on for half an hour， when the hallucinationarose again. Again he fought it， and still it persisted， till forvery relief he opened his rifle to unconvince himself. At timeshis mind wandered farther afield， and he plodded on， a mereautomaton， strange conceits and whimsicalities gnawing athis brain like worms. But these excursions out of the realwere of brief duration， for ever the pangs of the hunger-bitecalled him back. He was jerked back abruptly once from suchan excursion by a sight that caused him nearly to faint. Hereeled and swayed， doddering like a drunken man to keepfrom falling. Before him stood a horse. A horse！ He couldnot believe his eyes. A thick mist was in them， intershot withsparkling points of light. He rubbed his eyes savagely to clearhis vision， and beheld， not a horse， but a great brown bear. Theanimal was studying him with bellicose curiosity.
The man had brought his gun halfway to his shoulder beforehe realized. He lowered it and drew his hunting-knife fromits beaded sheath at his hip. Before him was meat and life. Heran his thumb along the edge of his knife. It was sharp. Thepoint was sharp. He would fling himself upon the bear andkill it. But his heart began its warning thump， thump， thump.
Then followed the wild upward leap and tattoo of flutters， thepressing as of an iron band about his forehead， the creeping ofthe dizziness into his brain.
His desperate courage was evicted by a great surge of fear.
In his weakness， what if the animal attacked him？ He drewhimself up to his most imposing stature， gripping the knife andstaring hard at the bear. The bear advanced clumsily a coupleof steps， reared up， and gave vent to a tentative growl. If theman ran， he would run after him； but the man did not run. Hewas animated now with the courage of fear. He， too， growled，savagely， terribly， voicing the fear that is to life germane andthat lies twisted about life’s deepest roots.
The bear edged away to one side， growling menacingly，himself appalled by this mysterious creature that appearedupright and unafraid. But the man did not move. He stood likea statue till the danger was past， when he yielded to a fit oftrembling and sank down into the wet moss.
He pulled himself together and went on， afraid now in anew way. It was not the fear that he should die passively fromlack of food， but that he should be destroyed violently beforestarvation had exhausted the last particle of the endeavor inhim that made toward surviving. There were the wolves. Backand forth across the desolation drifted their howls， weavingthe very air into a fabric of menace that was so tangible that hefound himself， arms in the air， pressing it back from him as itmight be the walls of a wind-blown tent.
Now and again the wolves， in packs of two and three，crossed his path. But they sheered clear of him. They werenot in sufficient numbers， and besides they were hunting thecaribou， which did not battle， while this strange creature thatwalked erect might scratch and bite.
In the late afternoon he came upon scattered bones where thewolves had made a kill. The debris had been a caribou calf anhour before， squawking and running and very much alive. Hecontemplated the bones， clean-picked and polished， pink withthe cell-life in them which had not yet died. Could it possiblybe that he might be that ere the day was done！ Such was life，eh？ A vain and fleeting thing. It was only life that pained.
There was no hurt in death. To die was to sleep. It meantcessation， rest. Then why was he not content to die？
But he did not moralize long. He was squatting in the moss，a bone in his mouth， sucking at the shreds of life that stilldyed it faintly pink. The sweet meaty taste， thin and elusivealmost as a memory， maddened him. He closed his jaws on thebones and crunched. Sometimes it was the bone that broke，sometimes his teeth. Then he crushed the bones between rocks，pounded them to a pulp， and swallowed them. He pounded hisfingers， too， in his haste， and yet found a moment in which tofeel surprise at the fact that his fingers did not hurt much whencaught under the descending rock.
Came frightful days of snow and rain. He did not knowwhen he made camp， when he broke camp. He travelled inthe night as much as in the day. He rested wherever he fell，crawled on whenever the dying life in him flickered up andburned less dimly. He， as a man， no longer strove. It was thelife in him， unwilling to die， that drove him on. He did notsuffer. His nerves had become blunted， numb， while his mindwas filled with weird visions and delicious dreams.
But ever he sucked and chewed on the crushed bones of thecaribou calf， the least remnants of which he had gathered upand carried with him. He crossed no more hills or divides， butautomatically followed a large stream which flowed througha wide and shallow valley. He did not see this stream nor thisvalley. He saw nothing save visions. Soul and body walked orcrawled side by side， yet apart， so slender was the thread thatbound them.
He awoke in his right mind， lying on his back on a rockyledge. The sun was shining bright and warm. Afar off he heardthe squawking of caribou calves. He was aware of vaguememories of rain and wind and snow， but whether he had beenbeaten by the storm for two days or two weeks he did not know.
For some time he lay without movement， the genial sunshinepouring upon him and saturating his miserable body with itswarmth. A fine day， he thought. Perhaps he could manage tolocate himself. By a painful effort he rolled over on his side.