The earth was bursting
with green; the early flowers were turning the sunny slopes into
coloured splashes of red and white and purple--splashes of violets and
forget-me-nots, of wild asters and hyacinths. David looked upon it all,
and his soul drank in its wonders. He made his camp, and he remained in
it all that day, and the next. He was eager to go on, and yet in his
eagerness he hesitated, and waited. It seemed to him that he must become
acquainted with this empty world before venturing farther into
it--alone; that it was necessary for him to understand it a little, and
get his bearings. He could not lose himself. Jacques had assured him of
that, and Kio had pantomimed it, pointing many times at the broad,
shallow stream that ran ahead of him. All he had to do was to follow the
river. In time, many weeks, of course, it would bring him to the white
settlement on the ocean. Long before that he would strike Firepan Creek.
Kio had never been so far; he had never been farther than this junction
of the two streams, Towaskook had informed Jacques. So it was not fear
that held David. It was the _aloneness_. He was taking a long mental
breath. And, meanwhile, he was repairing his boots, and doctoring
Baree's feet, bruised and sore by their travel over the shale of the
mountain tops.
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