With the break of another day he came out of his tent and stirred the fire.  There were still bits of burning ember, and these he fanned into life and added to their flame fresh fuel.  He could not easily forget last night’s torture, but its significance was gone.  He laughed at his own folly and wondered what Conniston himself would have thought of his nervousness.  For the first time in years he thought of the old days down at college where, among other things, he had made a mark for himself in psychology.  He had considered himself an expert in the discussion and understanding of phenomena of the mind.  Afterward he had lived up to the mark and had profited by his beliefs, and the fact that a simple relaxation of his mental machinery had so disturbed him last night amused him now.  The solution was easy.  It was his mind struggling to equilibrium after four years of brain-fag.  And he felt better.  His brain was clearer.  He listened to the watch and found its ticking natural.  He braced himself to another effort and whistled as he prepared his breakfast.

After that he packed his dunnage and continued south.  He wondered if Conniston ever knew his Manual as he learned it now.  At the end of the sixth day he could repeat it from cover to cover.  Every hour he made it a practice to stop short and salute the trees about him.  McDowell would not catch him there.

“I am Derwent Conniston,” he kept telling himself.  “John Keith is dead—­dead.  I buried him back there under the cabin, the cabin built by Sergeant Trossy and his patrol in nineteen hundred and eight.  My name is Conniston—­Derwent Conniston.”

In his years of aloneness he had grown into the habit of talking to himself—­or with himself—­to keep up his courage and sanity.  “Keith, old boy, we’ve got to fight it out,” he would say.  Now it was, “Conniston, old chap, we’ll win or die.”  After the third day, he never spoke of John Keith except as a man who was dead.  And over the dead John Keith he spread Conniston’s mantle.  “John Keith died game, sir,” he said to McDowell, who was a tree.  “He was the finest chap I ever knew.”

On this sixth day came the miracle.  For the first time in many months John Keith saw the sun.  He had seen the murky glow of it before this, fighting to break through the pall of fog and haze that hung over the Barrens, but this sixth day it was the sun, the real sun, bursting in all its glory for a short space over the northern world.  Each day after this the sun was nearer and warmer, as the arctic vapor clouds and frost smoke were left farther behind, and not until he had passed beyond the ice fogs entirely did Keith swing westward.  He did not hurry, for now that he was out of his prison, he wanted time in which to feel the first exhilarating thrill of his freedom.  And more than all else he knew that he must measure and test himself for the tremendous fight ahead of him.