Rod's experience that day had not been filled with the terrible hardships of his companions, and for some time after they had fallen asleep he sat close to the fire, thinking again of the strangeness with which his fortunes had changed, and watching the flickering firelight as it played in a thousand fanciful figures in the deeper and denser gloom of the forest.

The dogs had crept in close to the blazing logs and lay as still as though life no longer animated their tawny bodies.

From far away there came the lonely howl of a wolf; a great white man-owl fluttered close to the camp and chortled his crazy, half-human "hello, hello, hello;" the trees cracked with the tightening frost, but neither wolf howl nor frost nor the ghostly visitant's insane voice aroused those who were sleeping.
An hour passed and still Rod sat by the fire; his rifle lying across his knees.

His imagination had painted a thousand pictures in that time.

Never for an instant had his mind ceased to work.