The roar of the guns half roused him, and after that came pleasanter things--the droning of wind in the spruce tops, the singing of swollen streams in Springtime, the songs of birds, the sweet smells of life, the glory of life as he had lived it, he and O'Connor.

In the end, half between sleep and wakefulness, he was fighting a smothering pressure on his chest.

It was an oppressive and torturing thing, like the tree that had fallen on him over in the Jackfish country, and he felt himself slipping off into darkness.

Suddenly there was a gleam of light.

He opened his eyes.