. ."
This would never do. He must climb down and walk briskly, or return to
the hut. Maybe there was a bear, after all, behind one of the hummocks,
and a shot, or the chance of one, would scatter his head clear of these
tom-fooling notions. He would have a search round.
What was that, moving . . . on a hummock, not five hundred yards away?
He leaned forward to gaze.
Nothing now: but he had seen something. He lowered himself to the eaves
by the north corner, and from the eaves to the drift piled there.
The drift was frozen solid, but for a treacherous crust of fresh snow.
His foot slipped upon this, and down he slid of a heap.
Luckily he had been careful to sling the guns tightly at his back.
He picked himself up, and unstrapping one, took a step into the bright
moon-light to examine the nipples; took two steps: and stood
stock-still.
There, before him, on the frozen coat of snow, was a footprint.
No: two, three, four--many footprints: prints of a naked human foot:
right foot, left foot, both naked, and blood in each print--a little
smear.
It had come, then. He was mad for certain. He saw them: he put his
fingers in them; touched the frozen blood. The snow before the door was
trodden thick with them--some going, some returning.
"The latch . . . lifted . . ." Suddenly he recalled the figure he had
seen moving upon the hummock, and with a groan he set his face northward
and gave chase.
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