After resting a few minutes, Douglas, leaning heavily upon his rifle, tried to take a few steps. His legs trembled and threatened to give way under him, and every fiber in his body ached and quivered; but he resolutely put out one foot after the other. His head swam, and he reeled and tottered like an infant. But he succeeded in making his way to another tree, against which he leaned, gasping for breath. Standing there, he tremblingly reloaded his rifle. “Better than I expected!” he whispered with bloodless lips. “Much better! Now I shall seek a sheltered spot and build a fire.” Putting his resolution into action, he slowly and painfully worked his way to a small depression, a short distance from the scene of conflict. It was half-filled with drifted leaves and snow, and almost surrounded by bushes and briers. Near it were the dead and dry limbs of a fallen tree. Staggering into this natural shelter, Ross dropped upon the ground. Duke accompanied him. The wounded man laboriously cleared the cave of the accumulated mass of snow and leaves. When he had finished his hard task, he took out his flint and steel, and, after several discouraging failures, succeeded in starting a fire. Upon the tiny flame he piled sticks from the fallen tree-tops, which soon were ablaze. With a sigh of relief and comfort, he fell back and closed his eyes. After a time, however, the genial warmth penetrated his chilled and stiffened frame and aroused him from the partial swoon into which he had fallen. Sitting erect, he held out his hands to the welcome blaze and murmured tremulously: “What a man _can do_! Oh, this cough! It almost strangles me; and the pain is awful. Still I’m better off than I was—much better. I shall not freeze, at any rate. But I must have food. I am _so_ weak. Let me see,”—rolling his eyes heavenward,—“the stars indicate that it’s after midnight. I’ll rest by the fire until morning; then I’ll do what I can to procure something to eat.” Again he coughed spasmodically—hackingly. When the paroxysm had passed, he continued his whispered, broken monologue: “I wonder what became of Bright Wing and Joe. I’m glad they thought me dead. They’d have sacrificed their lives by staying; and done me no good. They may be dead; they may be prisoners among the Winnebagoes; or they may have escaped. If they got away unharmed, they’ll return to Franklinton and report my death. My God! My God! Amy—dear girl! The news will break her heart. And—great heavens! She may be persuaded to marry George Hilliard!” Bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned. He was suffering mentally and physically. His temples were throbbing; his skin was hot and dry. The demon of fever was dancing through his arteries. For some time, he sat silently staring into the depths of the fire. Above him the stars winked pitilessly; around him the lean shadows glided among the trees and eerily mocked him. No eye but God’s was upon him; no hand was stretched forth to save him.