Soon his fire was blazing
brightly again.
Consulting his watch, he found that he must have slept half an hour. He
determined that in order to keep himself awake and to provide against
the growing cold he would lay in a stock of firewood, and so he began a
systematic search for fallen trees that he might drag to his shelter.
As he was setting forth upon his search he became aware of a new sound
mingling with the roaring of the storm about him, a soft, pounding,
rhythmic sound. With every nerve strained he listened. It was like the
beating of hoofs. He ran out into the storm and, holding his hands
to his ears, bent forward to listen. Faintly over the roaring of the
blizzard, and rising and falling with it, there came the sound of
singing.
"Am I mad?" he said to himself, beating his head with his hands. He
rushed into the cave, threw upon the fire all the brushwood he had
gathered, until it sprang up into a great glare, lighting up the cave
and its surroundings. Then he rushed forth once more to the turn of the
rock. The singing could now be plainly heard.
"Three cheers for the red, white--Get on there, you variously coloured
and multitudinously cursed brutes!--Three cheers for the red--Hie there,
look out, Little Thunder! They are off to the left."
"Hello!" yelled Cameron at the top of his voice.
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