Page:Barbour--Metipoms Hostage.djvu/160

146 despondent, certain that he had fallen into the easy error of circling, not sure that the  trail was not behind him instead of before. Weariness took toll of hope. Every muscle in his body ached and his lungs grew sore. Pauses for rest, during which he leaned against a tree or subsided on a fallen log,  fighting for breath and against the languor  that threatened to bring sleep upon him, became more and more frequent.

In the end he grew to care no whit what fate befell him if only he might sleep. And yet some voice at the back of his tired brain  called him awake whenever his eyes closed  and sent him staggering on again. And thus, at length, what wits remained to him stayed  his steps and sent him feeling about in the  darkness, while hope surged back to his heart. Behind him were trees, but to the right and to the left were none until he had twice  stepped forward! Turning to the right he went cautiously ahead. Nothing impeded him. More, his feet trod hard earth between the crawling roots of the pines. He dropped to his knees and felt the ground. Clean it was, and the roots that crossed it were worn  with many feet. He had found the trail!