Then he girded himself
for this the final run. He was weary, indeed, but he was far from
spent, and the iron will that had yearly grown in force was there
with its unconquerable support.
Slowly at start, soon striding, and at last in the famous jog
trot of the scout he went. The sky was blackened with clouds at
length, and the jealous, howling east wind rolled up in rain; the
spindrift blurred the way; the heavy showers of spring came down
and drenched him; but his pack was safe and he trotted on and on.
Then long, deep swamps of alder barred his path, and, guided only
by the compass, Rolf pushed in and through and ever east. Barely
a mile an hour in the thickest part he made, but lagged not;
drenched and footsore, warm and torn, but doggedly, steadily on.
At three he had made a scant seven miles; then the level, open
wood of Thunderbolt was reached and his stride became a run;
trot, trot, trot, at six-mile gait, for but fifteen miles
remained. Sustained, inspired, the bringer of good news, he
halted not and faltered not, but on and on.
Tramp tramp, tramp tramp -- endless, tireless, hour by hour. At
five he was on Thunder Creek, scarce eight miles more to the
goal; his limbs were sore, his feet were sore; bone tired was he,
but his heart was filled with joy
"News of battle, news of victory" he was bringing, and the
thought lent strength; the five mires passed, the way was plain
with good roads now, but the runner was so weary.
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