He wanted to be hand to hand with the treacherous half-breed, and his breath came in panting eagerness as he ran.
Suddenly he stopped short.

He had struck the trail.

Here Croisset had stood, fifty yards from his window, when he fired.

The snow was beaten down, and from the spot his retreating footsteps led toward the forest.
Like a dog Philip followed the trail.

The first timber was thinned by the axe, and the moon lighted up the white spaces ahead of him.