Now that the whole truth in all its ugliness was out, it seemed useless to deal in further disguise or pretense.  They talked openly of the facts and probabilities.  It was not the first time, even in the experience of Dr. Cathcart, that a man had yielded to the singular seduction of the Solitudes and gone out of his mind; Defago, moreover, was predisposed to something of the sort, for he already had a touch of melancholia in his blood, and his fiber was weakened by bouts of drinking that often lasted for weeks at a time.  Something on this trip—­one might never know precisely what—­had sufficed to push him over the line, that was all.  And he had gone, gone off into the great wilderness of trees and lakes to die by starvation and exhaustion.  The chances against his finding camp again were overwhelming; the delirium that was upon him would also doubtless have increased, and it was quite likely he might do violence to himself and so hasten his cruel fate.  Even while they talked, indeed, the end had probably come.  On the suggestion of Hank, his old pal, however, they proposed to wait a little longer and devote the whole of the following day, from dawn to darkness, to the most systematic search they could devise.  They would divide the territory between them.  They discussed their plan in great detail.  All that men could do they would do.  And, meanwhile, they talked about the particular form in which the singular Panic of the Wilderness had made its attack upon the mind of the unfortunate guide.  Hank, though familiar with the legend in its general outline, obviously did not welcome the turn the conversation had taken.  He contributed little, though that little was illuminating.  For he admitted that a story ran over all this section of country to the effect that several Indians had “seen the Wendigo” along the shores of Fifty Island Water in the “fall” of last year, and that this was the true reason of Defago’s disinclination to hunt there.  Hank doubtless felt that he had in a sense helped his old pal to death by overpersuading him.  “When an Indian goes crazy,” he explained, talking to himself more than to the others, it seemed, “it’s always put that he’s ‘seen the Wendigo.’  An’ pore old Defaygo was superstitious down to he very heels ...!”

And then Simpson, feeling the atmosphere more sympathetic, told over again the full story of his astonishing tale; he left out no details this time; he mentioned his own sensations and gripping fears.  He only omitted the strange language used.

“But Defago surely had already told you all these details of the Wendigo legend, my dear fellow,” insisted the doctor.  “I mean, he had talked about it, and thus put into your mind the ideas which your own excitement afterwards developed?”

Whereupon Simpson again repeated the facts.  Defago, he declared, had barely mentioned the beast.  He, Simpson, knew nothing of the story, and, so far as he remembered, had never even read about it.  Even the word was unfamiliar.