his wits had wandered, he pulled himself together with renewed resolution. A critical glance at his back tracks, however, showed him that it was his wits only, and not his feet, that had wavered. He gathered a handful of bud-tips from a birch sapling, chewed them vigorously, and floundered forward with the feeling of having made a fresh start.
In response to the spur of his will McLaggan kept going for another hour. But now, under the persistent sapping of his energy by the intense cold, the violence of his exertion was no longer keeping up his internal warmth. He began to persuade himself that it would be best to find a sheltered spot, build a fire, warm himself, and rest. His saner self, however, reminded him angrily that as he had nothing to eat he would only grow weaker and weaker beside his fire till he could no longer gather wood for it, and would then lie down to death beside its ashes. Time, as well as all else in the world, he told himself bitterly, was against him. Well, he would not yield. He would not meet Fate lying down. He would fall fighting, if fall he must.
At this point McLaggan hardly had life enough left to see where he was going. He found himself suddenly confronted by a high ledge of grey and black rock, its steep front shrouded to half its height with snow. Again he had lost his way.
