They did not speak during the day, except when speech was
absolutely necessary. All traveled silently, and with downcast eyes. The
task was beginning to tell upon the frames of even the strongest and
most resolute. The hunger that continually gnawed at their vitals, the
excessive labor of moving the heavy, clumsy snow-shoes through the soft,
yielding snow, was too much for human endurance. They could no longer
keep together and aid each other with words of hope. They struggled
along, sometimes at great distances apart. The fatigue and dazzling
sunlight rendered some of them snowblind. One of these was the
noble-hearted Stanton. On this third day he was too blind and weak to
keep up with the rest, and staggered into the camp long after the others
had finished their pitiful supper. Poor, brave, generous Stanton! He
said little, but in his inner heart he knew that the end of his journey
was almost at hand.
Who was this heroic being who left the beautiful valleys of the
Sacramento to die for strangers? See him wearily toiling onward during
the long hours of the fourth day. The agony and blindness of his eyes
wring no cry from his lips, no murmur, no word of complaint. With
patient courage and heroic fortitude he strives to keep pace with his
companions, but finds it impossible.
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