If he spent more time in lying on the heather and thinking of Madaline than he did in shooting, that was his own concern--there was no one to interfere.
One day, when he was in one of his most despairing moods, he went out quite early in the morning, determined to wander the day through, to exhaust himself pitilessly with fatigue, and then see if he could not rest without dreaming of Madaline.

But as he wandered east and west, knowing little and caring less, whither he went, a violent storm, such as breaks at times over the Scottish moors, overtook him.

The sky grew dark as night, the rain fell in a torrent--blinding, thick, heavy--he could hardly see his hand before him.

He wandered on for hours, wet through, weary, cold, yet rather rejoicing than otherwise in his fatigue.

Presently hunger was added to fatigue; and then the matter became more serious--he had no hope of being able to find his way home, for he had no idea in what direction he had strayed.
At last he grew alarmed; life did not hold much for him, it was true, but he had no desire to die on those lonely wilds, without a human being near him.