He reached down and swept his hand to and fro--once--twice--the third time his little palm came away red and discolored.
There was the first pale premonition of dawn in the sky, and as he hurried on the light grew, and the black trunks of trees detached themselves from the white mist that filled the woods and which the dawn made visible.

There was light enough for him to see that he was following the trail left by the men; he could distinguish where the dew had been brushed from the long grass.

Advancing still farther, he heard the clear splash of running water, an audible ripple that mounted into a silver cadence.

Day was breaking now.

The lifeless gray along the eastern horizon had changed to orange.