There was in the meanwhile no sign of him beyond the smoke that hung about the bushes, and Alton turning over groaned again more loudly as he felt for his long-bladed knife.

It was not done without a purpose, but he had little difficulty in simulating a moan of pain, and when he heard a swish of leaves, lay flat, and dragged himself very softly farther into the fern.
The wet fronds brushed his face, and here and there his fingers sank into a patch of snow, but he found its chilly touch curiously pleasant, and once clawed up a handful and thrust it into his mouth.

A numbness was creeping over him, his head felt curiously heavy, but he was scheming for his life with the instinctive cunning of a wounded beast rather than reason.

There was now a sound behind him, but it was dulled by the roar of the river, which he realized would drown the faint rustle he made, and, when the fern grew scantier, dragged himself across an opening and crawled in amidst the raspberry briars on the other side.
The thorns scarred his face and ripped his hands, but he moved amidst them to clear space for his arms, and then lay still with the big knife beneath him.

A shaft of moonlight shone down a few yards away, and he had no desire to betray his hiding-place by the glint of steel.