A horned owl "hoo-hoo-ed," and a far- off wolf
uttered a drawn-out, soft, melancholy cry, as Rolf finished his
dried meat, tightened his belt, and set out on a long, hard run
that, in the days of Greece, would have furnished the theme of
many a noble epic poem.
No need to consult his compass. The blazing lamp of the dark sky
was his guide, straight east his course, varied a little by hills
and lakes, but nearly the crow-flight line. At first his pace was
a steady, swinging stride; then after a mile he came to an open
lake shore down which he went at a six-mile trot; and then an
alder thicket through which his progress was very slow; but that
soon passed, and for half a mile he splashed through swamps with
water a foot deep: nor was he surprised at length to see it open
into a little lake with a dozen beaver huts in view. "Splash,
prong" their builders went at his approach, but he made for the
hillside; the woods were open, the moonlight brilliant now, and
here he trotted at full swing as long as the way was level or
down, but always walked on the uphill. A sudden noise ahead was
followed by a tremendous crashing and crackling of the brush.
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