the sharp, distorting shadows the fugitives resumed their flight. Presently they emerged from the wooded country and crossed a low, bleak ridge of granite and scrub where the snow had been swept away, except from the clefts and hollows, by a recent gale. Traversing this harsh region in haste, the great bull led the way down the further slope, and reached once more the shelter of a belt of fir woods.
The night-sky by this time had become thickly overcast, till the only light was from the wide, vague glimmer of the sheeted earth. And now snow began to fall,—a thick still fall of small flakes, which the weather-wise bull knew was the kind of snowfall that would last for many hours, if not for days. He knew that it would speedily cover up the trail behind him. The immediate danger from the pot-hunters of the lumber camp—who care little for the game-laws—being thus removed, he led the way into the shelter of the trees; and once more the little party, this time with unanxious hearts, lay down to sleep in the soft and muffled dark.
Not yet, however, was the crafty bull content with his distance from the lumber-camp. His destination was clear in his mind's eye,—a region of low-lying land, of mixed swampy barren and stunted birch-woods, dotted with shallow ponds, and producing no timber of a growth to tempt the
