Again the impulse to return swept over me. Here, surely, was a most excellent reason for my failure⁠—one for which no one would think the less of me. But again the foolish pride fought against that very word. I could not⁠—must not⁠—fail. After all, my rifle would probably have been as useless as a shotgun against such dangers as I might meet. If I were to go back to camp to change my weapon I could hardly expect to enter and to leave again without being seen. In that case there would be explanations, and my attempt would no longer be all my own. After a little hesitation, then, I screwed up my courage and continued upon my way, my useless gun under my arm.