Fortunately his fire had not quite gone out; and, with a little effort, he revived it. Then he cooked himself some food, ate, threw himself upon the bed where Churi had died, and fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, it was afternoon. Clouds were rolling up the west, and there was promise of more rain. Oman went slowly out of his cave, with a new sense of desolation on him. The air was cold. The surrounding hills lay wrapped in still, gray shadows. All the morning joy had left the world. Reluctantly, with dread in his heart, Oman made his way down the eastern slope to the place of the funeral pyre. There lay a heap of wood ashes, mingled with white bones, a few scraps of cloth, and some pieces of charred and blackened flesh. That was all. The fire had done its work well. A week of rains and wind, and no trace would remain of him who had ascended the Silver Peak to die. The sight was less dreadful than Oman had feared; and he returned to his cave with a lighter heart. During the remainder of the daylight, Oman occupied himself in a desultory way by reviewing his depleted resources. His fire-wood was nearly gone; and, the woods around being soaked with rains, it would be a month or more before a new stock could be gathered and sufficiently dried to burn. His food supply was also very low. This fall he had neglected to care for his grain field; and the crop, which, by this time, should have been harvested, still lay in the soil, draggled with mud and mildewed with wet. He had yet a little millet from the last season, and some rice and dried dates brought by visitors, before the rains. But, fast as he might, these could not suffice for the winter. Tired and heavy-hearted, he sat in the doorway of his cave and watched night and the storm come on together. Then, while the rain beat into his shelter, and a fierce wind raged without, he rekindled his fire in the farthest corner of the cave, and lay down upon his grass bed, thinking to sleep.