Part 10

Sitting here and resting, Phil began to feel more hungry than ever. His walk had only served to sharpen his appetite, and the alleviation of his thirst had brought out his hunger more prominently. And now what could he do? To struggle forward all day without anything to eat would be almost impossible. Already he felt exhausted from his walk thus far without food; and to commence again seemed out of the question. In his hunger he now tried to find something in the woods. He tore up some grass, and chewed the roots; he peeled off some maple bark, and tried to chew this; but the grass roots and the maple bark had no perceptible effect in diminishing his hunger. At last he thought of his fishing line, which he had carried with him after throwing away the rod. Wondering why he had been so stupid as not to think of this before, he proceeded to search for a suitable rod. This he found after a short time, and attaching the line to the end of it, he proceeded to try his skill at fishing. He walked down the stream for some distance, but for some time he met with no success. He began to feel a little alarm, and to think that the heat and the smoke prevented the fish from rising, when suddenly, in the midst of his discouragement, he felt a nibble at the hook. He jerked it up, but missed his prey that time; still the circumstance encouraged him greatly, for it showed him that there was hope, and he continued his task with fresh spirit. At length, to his intense delight, he jerked out a fish. It was quite small, but still it was indescribably welcome; and without waiting any longer, Phil at once proceeded to kindle a fire. He did this with little difficulty, and placing the fish on the blazing sticks, he watched it until it seemed sufficiently cooked to be eaten. Although his hunger had made him too impatient to wait till the fish was thoroughly cooked, yet that same hunger made him indifferent to little deficiencies of this sort, and the half-raw trout seemed to him, without exception, the most delicious morsel that he had ever eaten. He now resumed his rod, and before long hauled out another, which was soon followed by another, and yet another. By this time the fire had died down to the coals, and on these Phil laid his fish. This time he waited until they were so thoroughly cooked that they would have satisfied the most fastidious appetite. On these Phil made a right royal repast; and this supply of food seemed to him to be sufficient for any effort that he might have to make that day. Before starting, however, he was provident enough to wait until he had caught three more trout, so as to secure himself from again coming so close to absolute starvation as he had been that morning; and then, putting these in his pocket, he rolled up very carefully his precious hook and line, and once more resumed his journey.

He had thus been able to satisfy both that thirst and that hunger which had each assailed him so fiercely on his first awaking; and this fact gave to him a glow of satisfaction, and a confidence in his own resources, which dispelled the last vestige of his gloom, and filled him with energy, and hope, and cheerfulness. In this frame of mind he set out on the renewal of his journey, not knowing any better than before where he was going, yet hoping for the best.

The brook ran on for some miles, receiving other brooks, and growing gradually larger. As a general thing, its bed afforded a sufficiently easy pathway for Phil to traverse, without any unusual exertion, and was preferable, on the whole, to the forest with its underbrush. Occasionally, however, he was able to take advantage of favorable openings among the trees, and on several occasions gained very much by taking short cuts, and avoiding certain bends in the river. On such short cuts it is needless to say that he never ventured, unless he was able to see plainly where he was going. In this way he went on for some hours, and in that time he certainly succeeded in getting-over a large extent of ground.

But such exertions as these were not made easily; and soon the energy with which he had started began to relax. He became more sensitive to the heat, and it seemed to him that the smoke was growing more dense and more distressing. He began to think that he must be drawing nearer to the fires from which all this smoke and this oppressive heat arose. The thought was a most disheartening one; for if it were true, it would transform what seemed to be his pathway to safety into a blind rush to danger, and make of no avail all his long struggles that he had put forth so perseveringly. It was a thought, indeed, which was too depressing for him to entertain, and so he strove to drive it from his mind; but it was one of those unpleasant ideas which cling to the mind in spite of itself, and so, notwithstanding Phil's efforts to hope for the best, there lowered over him a very dark and dismal foreboding that his present course would at length bring him face to face with the fire.

And what then?

All, that he could not tell.

Should he turn back now? No; that was a thing which he could not bear to think of. Wherever he was going, he could not turn back yet--not till he was convinced that it was all wrong--not till the very presence of the fire itself should force him to give up all hope of farther progress in this direction.

In spite of his surroundings of oppressive heat and distressing smoke, of rough pathways and alternating wood and water,--in spite of his fatigue of body, and despondency of mind,--Phil still kept on his course, and struggled most heroically to maintain his onward march, wherever it might lead. At length he reached a place where the stream ran in almost a straight line for a considerable distance; and looking down this, he could see at the farthest extremity the smoky haze; but at the same time he felt confident that it was not a whit denser than it had been in the morning. This discovery encouraged him; and now, if he felt the smoke and the heat more keenly, he was able, with great apparent reason, to attribute it solely to his own weariness of body.

“I will rest soon,” he thought. “I will take a long rest, and get something to eat, and that will be sure to restore me.”

With this thought he went on; and though he had made up his mind to rest, yet he kept constantly postponing the period of that rest. At length the stream took a turn round a wooded declivity, and as Phil went up this to cut across, he suddenly beheld lying immediately in front of him a small lake, into which the stream ran.

The sight of this at once decided him to make this wooded declivity his resting-place. So he took his seat here on the shore, and looked out upon the scene before him. The lake was of no very great extent, and was surrounded on all sides by trees. In front of Phil the beach was pebbly, and the waters clear and transparent; but on the right there was a wide extent covered over with green rushes, and water lilies, both yellow and white. As Phil looked forth upon this pleasant scene, the waters seemed so inviting and so clear, that he determined to take a bath. No sooner had he thought of this than he was on his feet again, and in a very short time had divested himself of his clothes and plunged in.

He plunged down into those sweet, clear, tranquil waters. As his head sank under the embrace of the cool flood, it seemed to convey new life and strength to every fibre of his wearied frame. It was one delicious moment in a day of toil and trouble. He struck out and swam far off into the middle of the lake. Then he dived again and again; and then, rolling over on his back, he lay floating, with his eyes closed, and his form reposing luxuriously upon its soft, watery couch. The water here was sufficiently clear and sufficiently deep for his purposes, the rushes and lilies were over upon the shore on one side, and there was nothing to mar his enjoyment. Here he forgot the heat and the smoke. The cool waters took away from him all that sense of oppression which he had so long felt, and when he at length landed, it was as though he had enjoyed some prolonged rest for hours, or some profound and refreshing slumber.

Now he resumed his clothes, and thought of those fish which he had been carrying. On examining them, he found them slightly stale, yet not at all crushed, and thereupon he proceeded to kindle a fire upon the shore of the lake. Thus far he had found no difficulty in making his fires, for he had matches with him, and there was no lack of dry twigs; so, in a short time, a fire sufficient for his purposes was blazing merrily. Phil was in no hurry; so, lying down near it, and leaning on one elbow, he watched it lazily, until sufficient coals had been formed, upon which he might lay his fish.

The fish this time were even superior to what they had been on a former occasion, for Phil’s practice had shown him, to some extent, how they could be broiled to the best advantage. All that they needed was a little salt and pepper; but he was too hungry to miss either of those seasonings. He found, indeed, in his case, the truth of the old saying, that hunger is the best relish; and never in his life had he eaten any meal with half the zest that he had known at the eventful meals of this eventful day. A draught of water from the running stream completed his repast, and he now lay down refreshed, and began to meditate over his journey. He had now rested for nearly two hours, and he began to feel like resuming his march. It would be necessary, he saw, to walk around the lake till he found its outlet, and then go along as before, and keep on as long as his strength might hold out.

Once more, then, he rose strong, eager, resolute, and cheerful, hoping for the best, and willing to go on in this course until he reached some destination, wherever that might be. He walked along the lake shore, and on reaching the other end, he found the outlet. This was nothing more than a continuation of the stream down which he had been going, but there was more water, for the lake probably received other contributions; and what was more important, the bottom was muddy. Fortunately, however, the woods here were free from underbrush, so that he had no difficulty in walking through them, keeping the stream in sight. After going about a mile or so, he found, to his great delight, that he had come to a pine forest. To him, after his long, rough walk, this fact gave the greatest possible joy. For now the trees rose up around him at wide intervals, and no tangled underbrush stood in his way, forcing him to wind through them or lose himself in the attempt to go around it. The pine forest allowed him to choose his own course and walk almost as freely as though he were in an open field. Besides, the ground under his feet gave a firm foothold. It was not like the soft moss or long ferns of the other woods; it was not like the pebbly bed of the stream; it was hard, and smooth, and afforded an easy pathway.

As Phil went on, he noticed that the stream grew much wider, though it still remained shallow. Its waters flowed sometimes in the middle of the bed, sometimes on the right bank, and sometimes towards the left; while again they distributed themselves over the whole of its wide bed, and brawled, and gurgled, and bubbled onward among the stones and pebbles with which its bed was again filled. At one place its channel divided, and a little island covered with trees arose in the midst, while the waters, after flowing past in two streams, once more reunited. About a half mile below this another stream joined it, and the waters were very considerably increased.

Phil walked along for several hours, and at length began to feel once more that excessive weariness which he had felt before bathing in the lake. Once more the atmosphere grew exceedingly oppressive, and the smoke distressed him. At length he came to a ledge of rocks, by the borders of the stream. As he came up he noticed something like an opening, and walked towards it. He saw that a huge mass of rock lay tilted over and resting against another mass in such a way that it formed a covered chamber about ten feet long and six feet wide. The floor was a flat, rough rock, and the end consisted of damp moss. Immediately beside this the stream flowed along in a deeper channel than usual, for all its waters had gathered on this side, leaving the rest of its bed bare. Phil was so struck with the appearance of this place that he examined it quite closely, and began to think that it would be an excellent place to pass the night in. He could not have found it at a better time. Already it was growing a little dusk, and he was thoroughly worn out. In fact he was so tired that after stopping here one minute he found it impossible to go forward any farther; so he at once resolved to stay.

On the top of the rock was a quantity of moss, and as he was going to pass the night here he proceeded to gather it, and collected a sufficient quantity to make a comfortable couch when strewed on the rocky floor of his little cave. But there were other things to do before he should be able to rest. He was once more in a state of starvation, and the only thing for him to do was to resort to his fishing-line. He found a pole without much trouble, and then threw his line. At first he met with no success. But he persevered, and walked farther up the stream till he came to a place that looked more favorable. Here his efforts were crowned with success, for in a little time he had hooked no less than six trout, one of which was large enough for a meal by itself.

After this he took a bath in the running stream, and felt once more the same invigorating and restorative effects from the cool water which he had experienced during his bath in the lake.

Then he kindled his fire on the edge of the stream, near his cave, and cooked two of the fish, reserving the others for the next morning.

This meal was as great a success as the former ones had been, and at length he retired to the little cave where he had already spread the moss for a bed. Here he could not help recalling the events of the day. He had hoped, on starting, by this time to have reached some human abode. He had not done so. But this, instead of exciting his regrets, gave way altogether to emotions of gratitude. He had been saved from thirst and from hunger in a most wonderful manner, and, even at this moment, instead of feeling utterly exhausted, he had little else than a sense of languid weariness. All this filled him with thankfulness, and kneeling down in his little cave, he offered up his most grateful thanks to the merciful Being who had protected his wanderings during the day.

After this he lay down on his moss and soon fell asleep.

XIV.

_Bart.--An anxious Night.--Suspicions.--Reappearance of Pat.--The Woes of Pat.--A hideous Thought.--The Leper.--Off to the Woods.--Indian File.--The Rear Guard.--Defection of Pat.--He makes a Circuit.--“Hyar! Hyar! You dar? Whar Mas’r Bart?”_

THE sight of the lurid glow which had burst upon Bart’s eyes as he looked from the priest’s house excited within him anxious thoughts, which kept him awake for hours on that night; the thought that Phil was wandering in those woods, and that all around him were these wrathful flames; the thought that perhaps he might have already fallen a victim; the thought that his search could scarcely be made now, since they could hardly hope to penetrate the woods for any distance; the thought that now any search, however extensive, might perhaps be too late. He slept but little. Every little while he would rise from his bed, and look out of the window towards the woods, to see if that lurid glow continued. It was visible for a long time, but at length died out altogether. But this did not lessen Bart’s anxieties, for now the smoke grew thicker, and the smell of it was most unpleasantly perceptible, exciting the very natural thought that the fire glow was no longer visible, not because the fires were extinguished, but rather because the smoke had grown so dense that it hid it from view.

When Bart arose it was not yet daybreak, and on coming down stairs no one was visible. He went out of doors, and paced up and down the road uneasily. After a while two men made their appearance, whom Bart recognized as the ones who were to be the guides in their exploration of the forest. He felt too anxious and too sick at heart to ask them anything, for he thought that anything they would say would only confirm his worst fears, and as yet he did not wish to know the worst. He wished to cling to his hopes, faint though they now were, until hope should be no longer possible. After a while Solomon made his appearance; but Bart had nothing to say to him, and the old man, seeing by his manner that he did not wish to be spoken to, held aloof, and sat down in silence on the doorstep.

It was now day, and still the priest had not made his appearance. Bart wondered at this, and attributed it to his oversleeping himself. This made him feel somewhat impatient, and he thought hardly of the priest for yielding to his drowsiness at such a time as this, when it was a question of life and death; but he waited, and checked a rising impulse which he had to hunt up the priest’s bedroom and wake him. While he was fretting and fuming, the two French guides had placidly seated themselves on the doorstep in a line with Solomon, and began to smoke, chatting with one another in French.

Suddenly Bart heard footsteps behind him. He thought it was the priest, and turned hastily. It was not the priest, however, but Pat. Bart had actually forgotten Pat’s existence ever since that moment on the previous evening, when he had gone out doors to look for him, and had seen that terrible appearance over the forest trees. As he now recognized him, he wondered at his long absence, and noticed at the same time that Pat looked very much agitated. At once he thought that Pat had heard bad news, and had come to tell him. This idea was so terrible that he stood paralyzed, and could scarcely utter a word.

Pat came up and gave a heavy sigh.

“It’s dhreadful--it’s terrible. Och, wurrooooo!” Bart looked at him with an awful face, not daring to ask the question that was upon his lips, and now feeling sure that Pat had heard the worst.

“Och, what’ll we iver do?” cried Pat; “what’ll we iver do? Sure an me heart’s fairly broke widin me, so it is.”

“How did you find it out?” asked Bart, in a trembling voice.

“Sure an wasn’t it the praste himself that tould me,” said Pat, in a tone of voice that sounded like a wail of despair.

“The priest?” said Bart. “You saw him then--did you. Where--where is he?”

“The praste,” said Pat, dolefully; “sorra one o’ me knows. I seen him dhrivin off. I wor sleepin undher a tray behind the fince. I wasn’t goin to thrust mesilf in their leper houses, so I wasn’t.”

“You saw him. P--he has gone, has he--gone--to--to--to see about it,” stammered Bart, feverishly; “and what did he tell you?”

“Tell me?” said Pat, dubiously.

“Yes. You said you saw him.”

“So I did.”

“Well--what did he say about it?”

“Sure an he didn’t say anythin jist thin.”

“But he told you about it, you said.”

“So he did; but it was last night.”

“O, in the night--you saw him in the night--he must have been out then--and I thought he was in bed. O, why wasn’t I with him? Why didn’t he take me? But I suppose he thought I’d be too much overcome, and so he didn’t want to tell me--and did he tell you this, Pat? Tell me all. Tell me all--don’t keep me in suspense.”

At these incoherent words Pat stared at Bart in utter amazement, and for a moment thought that he had lost his senses.

“Suspinse?” he said--“suspinse? What do you mean? You talk as though you’d lost your sivin sinsis! Sure an didn’t you hear it yerself, ivery word? Sure an worn’t ye in the room yourself, listhening? Didn’t ye hear it all?”

“Hear it all? Hear what?” cried Bart. “About what?”

“Why, about the lepers, sure. Sorra a thought I’ve had iver since, except about that same. And I went off, so I did; for I didn’t dare to slape in that leper house, wid a man that lives among the lepers and shakes hands wid them.”

“The lepers!” cried Bart in impatience, but with a feeling of inexpressible relief--the relief which is felt at a respite, however brief, from sorrow. “The lepers! Why, I was talking about Phil. Have you heard anything about Phil?”

“Phil?” said Pat. “Arrah, sure he’s all right. I ony wish I wor in his shoes. It ud be a happy boy I’d be if I cud change places wid Phil. Och, wurroo--but it’s a bitther day whin I came to this place.”

“You haven’t heard anything at all about Phil, then?” said Bart.

“Niver a word,” said Pat. “I’ve heard too much about other things.”

Bart turned away.

As for Pat, he wandered disconsolately to the fence by the road side, and leaning against it, he stood there in a woe-begone attitude,--the very picture of despair.

Bart now resumed his melancholy walk; but before he had taken many paces, he heard the rapid gallop of a horse, and in turning, he saw a rider approaching the house, who, on drawing nearer, turned out to be the priest. Bart now saw that he had done his kind host a great injustice in supposing that he had been oversleeping himself, and felt a natural sorrow at his suspicions. As the priest dismounted, the very first words which he addressed to Bart made the compunction of the latter over his unjust suspicions still stronger, since they showed that, so far from sleeping while Bart was wakeful, in his anxiety over Phil, he had left Bart in bed, and had been traversing the country for miles, in order to institute a general search after the lost boy.

“I took a few hours’ sleep,” said he, “and rose between one and two. I’ve been up the road for twelve or fifteen miles, and have persuaded a number of people to make a search of the woods as far as they are able to. They are all full of the deepest anxiety about the poor lad, and you may rest assured that the good people will do all in their power for him. My people are not very intellectual, nor are they what you call progressive; but they are affectionate, simple-hearted, and brave; and there is not one of them that I have spoken to who will have any peace until that poor lad’s fate is decided. So when we go off to search after him, you may console yourself with the thought that our party is but one out of several that are engaged in the same search.”

At this disclosure of the real business of the priest, Bart was so overcome with mingled emotions, that he could scarcely say a word. He could only murmur some confused expressions of gratitude.

“O, never mind me,” said the priest, “and my poor efforts. I assure you I am as eager to find him as you are. Pray to God, my boy. He only can save your friend. And now let us set out at once.”

With these words the priest hurried up to the two guides, and spoke a few words to them in French. The guides answered, and after a short conversation the priest went into the house. The guides took his horse and put him in the stable; and by the time they had returned, the priest came out, and they all went off towards the woods.