His eyes were unusually bright and fiercely keen, but his worn-out limbs would not quite obey him.
He lay still among the undergrowth about the rocky places where the deer come out to sun themselves clear of the dew-wet fern, and crawled into quaggy swamps where the little black bear feeds, but he could find no sign of life.

When he strained his ears to listen there was only the sound of falling water or the clamor of a hidden creek.

Sight was of almost as little service among those endless rows of towering trunks, between which the tall fern and underbrush sprang up.

There was no distance, scarcely even an alternation of light and shadow.

The vision was narrowed in and confused by the unchanging sameness of the great gray colonnade.
Still, Weston persisted in his search; though it was not patience but the savageness of desperation that animated him.