For
the second time that day his fighting blood rose. It surged through his
veins in a flood, beating down the old barriers, clearing away the
obstructions of his doubts and his fears, and filling him with the
_desire_ to go on--the desire to fight it out, to punish himself as he
deserved to be punished, and to win in the end. Father Roland, glancing
back in benignant solicitude, saw the new glow in David's eyes. He saw,
also, his parted lips and the quickness of his breath. With a sharp
command he stopped Mukoki and the dogs.
"Half a mile at a time is enough for a beginner," he said to David.
"Back off your shoes and ride the next half mile."
David shook his head.
"Go on," he said, tersely, saving his wind. "I'm just finding myself."
Father Roland loaded and lighted his pipe. The aroma of the tobacco
filled David's nostrils as they went on. Clouds of smoke wreathed the
Little Missioner's shoulders as he followed the trail ahead of him. It
was comforting, that smoke. It warmed David with a fresh desire. His
exertion was clearing out his lungs. He was inhaling balsam and spruce,
a mighty tonic of dry forest air, and he felt also the craving to smoke.
But he knew that he could not afford the waste of breath.
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