his strength, he sang in his heart for joy. Again a gray wolf
cantered on his trail, and the runner laughed, without a thought
of fear. He seemed to know the creature better now; knew it as a
brother, for it gave no hostile sound, but only seemed to trot,
trot, for the small joy of running with a runner, as a swallow or
an antelope will skim along by a speeding train. For an hour or
more it matched his pace, then left as though its pleasant stroll
was done, and Rolf kept on and on and on.
The spring sun soared on high, the day grew warm at noon. Schroon
River just above the lake was in his path, and here he stopped to
rest. Here, with the last of his oatcake and a little tea, he
made his final meal; thirty eight miles had he covered since he
rose; his clothes were torn, his moccasins worn, but his legs
were strong, his purpose sure; only twenty-two miles now, and his
duty would be done; his honours won. What should he do, push on
at once? No, he meant to rest an hour. He made a good fire by a
little pool, and using a great mass of caribou moss as a sponge,
he had a thorough rub-down. He got out his ever- ready needle and
put his moccasins in good shape; he dried his clothes and lay on
his back till the hour was nearly gone. Then he girded himself
for this the final run. He was weary, indeed, but he was far from
spent, and the iron will that had yearly grown in force was there
with its unconquerable support.
Slowly at start, soon striding, and at last in the famous jog
trot of the scout he went. The sky was blackened with clouds at
length, and the jealous, howling east wind rolled up in rain; the
spindrift blurred the way; the heavy showers of spring came down
and drenched him; but his pack was safe and he trotted on and on.
Then long, deep swamps of alder barred his path, and, guided only
by the compass, Rolf pushed in and through and ever east. Barely
a mile an hour in the thickest part he made, but lagged not;
drenched and footsore, warm and torn, but doggedly, steadily on.
At three he had made a scant seven miles; then the level, open
wood of Thunderbolt was reached and his stride became a run;
trot, trot, trot, at six-mile gait, for but fifteen miles
remained. Sustained, inspired, the bringer of good news, he
halted not and faltered not, but on and on.
Tramp tramp, tramp tramp -- endless, tireless, hour by hour. At
five he was on Thunder Creek, scarce eight miles more to the
goal; his limbs were sore, his feet were sore; bone tired was he,
but his heart was filled with joy
"News of battle, news of victory" he was bringing, and the
thought lent strength; the five mires passed, the way was plain
with good roads now, but the runner was so weary. He was
striding, his running was done, the sun was low in the west, his
feet were bleeding, the courier was brain worn and leg worn, but
he strode and strode. He passed by homes but heeded them not.
"Come in and rest," called one who saw nothing but a weary
traveller. Rolf shook his head, but gave no word and strode
along. A mile -- a short mile now; he must hold out; if he sat
down he feared he could not rise. He came at last in sight of the
fort; then, gathering all his force, he broke into a trot, weak,