He freed himself from his entangled snowshoes and went on deeper into the shelter.

It became warmer and they could feel no longer a breath of the wind.
He unloaded his pack and drew from it a jackpine torch, dried in his cabin and heavy with pitch.

Shortly the flare of this torch lighted up their refuge for a dozen paces about them.

In the illumination of it, moving it from place to place, he gathered dry fire wood and with his axe cut down green spruce for the smouldering back-fire that would last until morning.

By the time the torch had consumed itself the fire was burning, and where Jolly Roger had scraped away the snow from the thick carpet of spruce needles underfoot he piled a thick mass of balsam boughs, and in the center of the bed he buried himself, wrapped warmly in his blankets, and with Peter snuggled close at his side.
Through dark hours the green spruce fire burned slowly and steadily.