The Wendigo

l beat time with his lessening pulses when he realized that he was lying with his eyes open and that another

and alarm. He listened intently, though at first in vain, for the running blood beat all its

er for a better hearing, it focused itself unmistakably not two feet away. It was a sound of weeping; Défago upon his bed of bra

t them, woke pity. It was so incongruous, so pitifully incongruous-and so vain! Tears-in this vast and cruel wilderness: of what avail? He thought of a little child cry

very gentle. "Are you in pain-unhappy-?" There was no reply, but the sounds ce

ncovered, projected beyond the mouth of the tent. He spread an extra fold of his own blankets over them. The guide had slipped down

there came no reply, nor any sign of movement. Presently he heard his regular and quiet brea

e whispered, "or if I can do anythin

e, had been crying in his sleep. Some dream or other had afflicted him. Yet never in his life would he fo

rious place as one, and though his reason successfully argued away all unwelcome suggestions, a