He put on fresh wood, covering it with ashes in order that it
might not blaze too high, and left the islet. The stepping
stones were slippery with water, and his moccasins soon became
soaked again, but he forgot the cold and wet in that ferocious
hunger, the attacks of which became more violent every minute.
He was hopeful that he might see a deer, or even a squirrel, but
the animals themselves were likely to keep under cover in such a
rain. He expected a hard hunt, and it would be attended also by
much danger - these woods must be full of Indians - but be
thought little of the risk. His hunger was taking complete
possession of his mind. He was realizing now that one might want
a thing so much that it would drive away all other thoughts.

Rifle in hand, ready for any quick shot, he searched hour after
hour through the woods and thickets. He was wet, bedraggled, and
as fierce as a famishing panther, but neither skill nor instinct
guided him to anything. The rabbit hid in his burrow, the
squirrel remained in his hollow tree, and the deer did not leave
his covert.

Henry could not well calculate the passage of time, it seemed so
fearfully long, and there was no one to tell him, but he judged
that it must be about noon, and his temper was becoming that of
the famished panther to which he likened himself. He paused and
looked around the circle of the dripping woods. He had retained
his idea of direction and he knew that he could go straight back
to the hut in the swamp. But he had no idea of returning now. A
power that neither he nor anyone else could resist was pushing
him on his search.