Kitabı oku: «Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood», sayfa 12
They parted asunder, and Scroggie, still lame, strode heavily up to the gate. Recalling nothing but his old enmity, I turned once more and implored Davie. “Do run, Davie, dear! it’s all up,” I said; but my entreaties were lost upon Davie. Turning again in despair, I saw the lame leg being hoisted over the gate. A shudder ran through me: I could not kick that leg; but I sprang up and hit Scroggie hard in the face. I might as well have hit a block of granite. He swore at me, caught hold of my hand, and turning to the assailants said:
“Now, you be off! This is my little business. I’ll do for him!”
Although they were far enough from obeying his orders, they were not willing to turn him into an enemy, and so hung back expectant. Meantime the lame leg was on one side of the gate, the splints of which were sharpened at the points, and the sound leg was upon the other. I, on the one side—for he had let go my hand in order to support himself—retreated a little, and stood upon the defensive, trembling, I must confess; while my enemies on the other side could not reach me so long as Scroggie was upon the top of the gate.
The lame leg went searching gently about, but could find no rest for the sole of its foot, for there was no projecting cross bar upon this side; the repose upon the top was anything but perfect, and the leg suspended behind was useless. The long and the short, both in legs and results, was, that there Scroggie stuck; and so long as he stuck, I was safe. As soon as I saw this, I turned and caught up Davie, thinking to make for home once more. But that very instant there was a rush at the gate; Scroggie was hoisted over, the knife was taken out, and on poured the assailants, before I had quite reached the other end of the bridge.
“At them, Oscar!” cried a voice.
The dog rushed past me on to the bridge, followed by Turkey. I set Davie down, and, holding his hand, breathed again. There was a scurry and a rush, a splash or two in the water, and then back came Oscar with his innocent tongue hanging out like a blood-red banner of victory. He was followed by Scroggie, who was exploding with laughter.
Oscar came up wagging his tail, and looking as pleased as if he had restored obedience to a flock of unruly sheep. I shrank back from Scroggie, wishing Turkey, who was still at the other end of the bridge, would make haste.
“Wasn’t it fun, Ranald?” said Scroggie. “You don’t think I was so lame that I couldn’t get over that gate? I stuck on purpose.”
Turkey joined us with an inquiring look, for he knew how Scroggie had been in the habit of treating me.
“It’s all right, Turkey,” I said. “Scroggie stuck on the gate on purpose.”
“A good thing for you, Ranald!” said Turkey. “Didn’t you see Peter Mason amongst them?”
“No. He left the school last year.”
“He was there, though, and I don’t suppose he meant to be agreeable.”
“I tell you what,” said Scroggie: “if you like, I’ll leave my school and come to yours. My mother lets me do as I like.”
I thanked him, but said I did not think there would be more of it. It would blow over.
Allister told my father as much as he knew of the affair; and when he questioned me, I told him as much as I knew.
The next morning, just as we were all settling to work, my father entered the school. The hush that followed was intense. The place might have been absolutely empty for any sound I could hear for some seconds. The ringleaders of my enemies held down their heads, as anticipating an outbreak of vengeance. But after a few moments’ conversation with Mr. Wilson, my father departed. There was a mystery about the proceeding, an unknown possibility of result, which had a very sedative effect the whole of the morning. When we broke up for dinner, Mr. Wilson detained me, and told me that my father thought it better that, for some time at least, I should not occupy such a prominent position as before. He was very sorry, he said, for I had been a great help to him; and if I did not object, he would ask my father to allow me to assist him in the evening-school during the winter. I was delighted at the prospect, sank back into my natural position, and met with no more annoyance. After a while I was able to assure my former foes that I had had no voice in bringing punishment upon them in particular, and the enmity was, I believe, quite extinguished.
When winter came, and the evening-school was opened, Mr. Wilson called at the manse, and my father very willingly assented to the proposed arrangement. The scholars were mostly young men from neighbouring farms, or from workshops in the village, with whom, although I was so much younger than they, there was no danger of jealousy. The additional assistance they would thus receive, and their respect for superior knowledge, in which, with my advantages, I had no credit over them, would prevent any false shame because of my inferiority in years.
There were a few girls at the school as well—among the rest, Elsie Duff. Although her grandmother was very feeble, Elsie was now able to have a little more of her own way, and there was no real reason why the old woman should not be left for an hour or two in the evening. I need hardly say that Turkey was a regular attendant. He always, and I often, saw Elsie home.
My chief pleasure lay in helping her with her lessons. I did my best to assist all who wanted my aid, but offered unsolicited attention to her. She was not quick, but would never be satisfied until she understood, and that is more than any superiority of gifts. Hence, if her progress was slow, it was unintermitting. Turkey was far before me in trigonometry, but I was able to help him in grammar and geography, and when he commenced Latin, which he did the same winter, I assisted him a good deal.
Sometimes Mr. Wilson would ask me to go home with him after school, and take supper. This made me late, but my father did not mind it, for he liked me to be with Mr. Wilson. I learned a good deal from him at such times. He had an excellent little library, and would take down his favourite books and read me passages. It is wonderful how things which, in reading for ourselves, we might pass over in a half-blind manner, gain their true power and influence through the voice of one who sees and feels what is in them. If a man in whom you have confidence merely lays his finger on a paragraph and says to you, “Read that,” you will probably discover three times as much in it as you would if you had only chanced upon it in the course of your reading. In such case the mind gathers itself up, and is all eyes and ears.
But Mr. Wilson would sometimes read me a few verses of his own; and this was a delight such as I have rarely experienced. My reader may wonder that a full-grown man and a good scholar should condescend to treat a boy like me as so much of an equal; but sympathy is precious even from a child, and Mr. Wilson had no companions of his own standing. I believe he read more to Turkey than to me, however.
As I have once apologized already for the introduction of a few of his verses with Scotch words in them, I will venture to try whether the same apology will not cover a second offence of the same sort.
JEANIE BRAW1
I like ye weel upo’ Sundays, Jeanie,
In yer goon an’ yer ribbons gay;
But I like ye better on Mondays, Jeanie,
And I like ye better the day.2
For it will come into my heid, Jeanie,
O’ yer braws3 ye are thinkin’ a wee;
No’ a’ o’ the Bible-seed, Jeanie,
Nor the minister nor me.
And hame across the green, Jeanie,
Ye gang wi’ a toss o’ yer chin:
Us twa there’s a shadow atween, Jeanie,
Though yer hand my airm lies in.
But noo, whan I see ye gang, Jeanie,
Busy wi’ what’s to be dune,
Liltin’ a haveless4 sang, Jeanie,
I could kiss yer verra shune.
Wi’ yer silken net on yer hair, Jeanie,
In yer bonny blue petticoat,
Wi’ yer kindly airms a’ bare, Jeanie,
On yer verra shadow I doat.
For oh! but ye’re eident5 and free, Jeanie,
Airy o’ hert and o’ fit6;
There’s a licht shines oot o’ yer ee, Jeanie;
O’ yersel’ ye thinkna a bit.
Turnin’ or steppin’ alang, Jeanie,
Liftin’ an’ layin’ doon,
Settin’ richt what’s aye gaein’ wrang, Jeanie,
Yer motion’s baith dance an’ tune.
Fillin’ the cogue frae the coo, Jeanie,
Skimmin’ the yallow cream,
Poorin’ awa’ the het broo, Jeanie,
Lichtin’ the lampie’s leme7—
I’ the hoose ye’re a licht an’ a law, Jeanie,
A servant like him that’s abune:
Oh! a woman’s bonniest o’ a’, Jeanie,
Whan she’s doin’ what maun be dune.
Sae, dressed in yer Sunday claes, Jeanie,
Fair kythe8 ye amang the fair;
But dressed in yer ilka-day’s9, Jeanie,
Yer beauty’s beyond compare.
CHAPTER XXXI
A Winter’s Ride
In this winter, the stormiest I can recollect, occurred the chief adventure of my boyhood—indeed, the event most worthy to be called an adventure I have ever encountered.
There had been a tremendous fall of snow, which a furious wind, lasting two days and the night between, had drifted into great mounds, so that the shape of the country was much altered with new heights and hollows. Even those who were best acquainted with them could only guess at the direction of some of the roads, and it was the easiest thing in the world to lose the right track, even in broad daylight. As soon as the storm was over, however, and the frost was found likely to continue, they had begun to cut passages through some of the deeper wreaths, as they called the snow-mounds; while over the tops of others, and along the general line of the more frequented roads, footpaths were soon trodden. It was many days, however, before vehicles could pass, and coach-communication be resumed between the towns. All the short day, the sun, though low, was brilliant, and the whole country shone with dazzling whiteness; but after sunset, which took place between three and four o’clock, anything more dreary can hardly be imagined, especially when the keenest of winds rushed in gusts from the north-east, and lifting the snow-powder from untrodden shadows, blew it, like so many stings, in the face of the freezing traveller.
Early one afternoon, just as I came home from school, which in winter was always over at three o’clock, my father received a message that a certain laird, or squire as he would be called in England—whose house lay three or four miles off amongst the hills, was at the point of death, and very anxious to see him: a groom on horseback had brought the message. The old man had led a life of indifferent repute, and that probably made him the more anxious to see my father, who proceeded at once to get ready for the uninviting journey.
Since my brother Tom’s departure, I had become yet more of a companion to my father; and now when I saw him preparing to set out, I begged to be allowed to go with him. His little black mare had a daughter, not unused to the saddle. She was almost twice her mother’s size, and none the less clumsy that she was chiefly employed upon the farm. Still she had a touch of the roadster in her, and if not capable of elegant motion, could get over the ground well enough, with a sort of speedy slouch, while, as was of far more consequence on an expedition like the present, she was of great strength, and could go through the wreaths, Andrew said, like a red-hot iron. My father hesitated, looked out at the sky, and hesitated still.
“I hardly know what to say, Ranald. If I were sure of the weather—but I am very doubtful. However, if it should break up, we can stay there all night. Yes.—Here, Allister; run and tell Andrew to saddle both the mares, and bring them down directly.—Make haste with your dinner, Ranald.”
Delighted at the prospect, I did make haste; the meal was soon over, and Kirsty expended her utmost care in clothing me for the journey, which would certainly be a much longer one in regard of time than of space. In half an hour we were all mounted and on our way—the groom, who had so lately traversed the road, a few yards in front.
I have already said, perhaps more than once, that my father took comparatively little notice of us as children, beyond teaching us of a Sunday, and sometimes of a week-evening in winter, generally after we were in bed. He rarely fondled us, or did anything to supply in that manner the loss of our mother. I believe his thoughts were tenderness itself towards us, but they did not show themselves in ordinary shape: some connecting link was absent. It seems to me now sometimes, that perhaps he was wisely retentive of his feelings, and waited a better time to let them flow. For, ever as we grew older, we drew nearer to my father, or, more properly, my father drew us nearer to him, dropping, by degrees, that reticence which, perhaps, too many parents of character keep up until their children are full grown; and by this time he would converse with me most freely. I presume he had found, or believed he had found me trustworthy, and incapable of repeating unwisely any remarks he made. But much as he hated certain kinds of gossip, he believed that indifference to your neighbour and his affairs was worse. He said everything depended on the spirit in which men spoke of each other; that much of what was called gossip was only a natural love of biography, and, if kindly, was better than blameless; that the greater part of it was objectionable, simply because it was not loving, only curious; while a portion was amongst the wickedest things on earth, because it had for its object to believe and make others believe the worst. I mention these opinions of my father, lest anyone should misjudge the fact of his talking to me as he did.
Our horses made very slow progress. It was almost nowhere possible to trot, and we had to plod on, step by step. This made it more easy to converse.
“The country looks dreary, doesn’t it, Ranald?” he said.
“Just like as if everything was dead, father,” I replied.
“If the sun were to cease shining altogether, what do you think would happen?”
I thought a bit, but was not prepared to answer, when my father spoke again.
“What makes the seeds grow, Ranald—the oats, and the wheat, and the barley?”
“The rain, father,” I said, with half-knowledge.
“Well, if there were no sun, the vapours would not rise to make clouds. What rain there was already in the sky would come down in snow or lumps of ice. The earth would grow colder and colder, and harder and harder, until at last it went sweeping through the air, one frozen mass, as hard as stone, without a green leaf or a living creature upon it.”
“How dreadful to think of, father!” I said. “That would be frightful.”
“Yes, my boy. It is the sun that is the life of the world. Not only does he make the rain rise to fall on the seeds in the earth, but even that would be useless, if he did not make them warm as well—and do something else to them besides which we cannot understand. Farther down into the earth than any of the rays of light can reach, he sends other rays we cannot see, which go searching about in it, like long fingers; and wherever they find and touch a seed, the life that is in that seed begins to talk to itself, as it were, and straightway begins to grow. Out of the dark earth he thus brings all the lovely green things of the spring, and clothes the world with beauty, and sets the waters running, and the birds singing, and the lambs bleating, and the children gathering daisies and butter-cups, and the gladness overflowing in all hearts—very different from what we see now—isn’t it, Ranald?”
“Yes, father; a body can hardly believe, to look at it now, that the world will ever be like that again.”
“But, for as cold and wretched as it looks, the sun has not forsaken it. He has only drawn away from it a little, for good reasons, one of which is that we may learn that we cannot do without him. If he were to go, not one breath more could one of us draw. Horses and men, we should drop down frozen lumps, as hard as stones. Who is the sun’s father, Ranald?”
“He hasn’t got a father,” I replied, hoping for some answer as to a riddle.
“Yes, he has, Ranald: I can prove that. You remember whom the apostle James calls the Father of Lights?”
“Oh yes, of course, father. But doesn’t that mean another kind of lights?”
“Yes. But they couldn’t be called lights if they were not like the sun. All kinds of lights must come from the Father of Lights. Now the Father of the sun must be like the sun, and, indeed of all material things, the sun is likest to God. We pray to God to shine upon us and give us light. If God did not shine into our hearts, they would be dead lumps of cold. We shouldn’t care for anything whatever.”
“Then, father, God never stops shining upon us. He wouldn’t be like the sun if he did. For even in winter the sun shines enough to keep us alive.”
“True, my boy. I am very glad you understand me. In all my experience I have never yet known a man in whose heart I could not find proofs of the shining of the great Sun. It might be a very feeble wintry shine, but still he was there. For a human heart though, it is very dreadful to have a cold, white winter like this inside it, instead of a summer of colour and warmth and light. There’s the poor old man we are going to see. They talk of the winter of age: that’s all very well, but the heart is not made for winter. A man may have the snow on his roof, and merry children about his hearth; he may have grey hairs on his head, and the very gladness of summer in his bosom. But this old man, I am afraid, feels wintry cold within.”
“Then why doesn’t the Father of Lights shine more on him and make him warmer?”
“The sun is shining as much on the earth in the winter as in the summer: why is the earth no warmer?”
“Because,” I answered, calling up what little astronomy I knew, “that part of it is turned away from the sun.”
“Just so. Then if a man turns himself away from the Father of Lights—the great Sun—how can he be warmed?”
“But the earth can’t help it, father.”
“But the man can, Ranald. He feels the cold, and he knows he can turn to the light. Even this poor old man knows it now. God is shining on him—a wintry way—or he would not feel the cold at all; he would be only a lump of ice, a part of the very winter itself. The good of what warmth God gives him is, that he feels cold. If he were all cold, he couldn’t feel cold.”
“Does he want to turn to the Sun, then, father?”
“I do not know. I only know that he is miserable because he has not turned to the Sun.”
“What will you say to him, father?”
“I cannot tell, my boy. It depends on what I find him thinking. Of all things, my boy, keep your face to the Sun. You can’t shine of yourself, you can’t be good of yourself, but God has made you able to turn to the Sun whence all goodness and all shining comes. God’s children may be very naughty, but they must be able to turn towards him. The Father of Lights is the Father of every weakest little baby of a good thought in us, as well as of the highest devotion of martyrdom. If you turn your face to the Sun, my boy, your soul will, when you come to die, feel like an autumn, with the golden fruits of the earth hanging in rich clusters ready to be gathered—not like a winter. You may feel ever so worn, but you will not feel withered. You will die in peace, hoping for the spring—and such a spring!”
Thus talking, in the course of two hours or so we arrived at the dwelling of the old laird.
CHAPTER XXXII
The Peat-Stack
How dreary the old house looked as we approached it through the gathering darkness! All the light appeared to come from the snow which rested wherever it could lie—on roofs and window ledges and turrets. Even on the windward walls, every little roughness sustained its own frozen patch, so that their grey was spotted all over with whiteness. Not a glimmer shone from the windows.
“Nobody lives there, father,” I said,—“surely?”
“It does not look very lively,” he answered.
The house stood upon a bare knoll. There was not a tree within sight. Rugged hills arose on all sides of it. Not a sound was heard but the moan of an occasional gust of wind. There was a brook, but it lay frozen beneath yards of snow. For miles in any direction those gusts might wander without shaking door or window, or carrying with them a puff of smoke from any hearth. We were crossing the yard at the back of the house, towards the kitchen-door, for the front door had not been opened for months, when we recognized the first sign of life. That was only the low of a bullock. As we dismounted on a few feet of rough pavement which had been swept clear, an old woman came to the door, and led us into a dreary parlour without even a fire to welcome us.
I learned afterwards that the laird, from being a spendthrift in his youth, had become a miser in his age, and that every household arrangement was on the narrowest scale. From wasting righteous pounds, he had come to scraping unrighteous farthings.
After we had remained standing for some time, the housekeeper returned, and invited my father to go to the laird’s room. As they went, he requested her to take me to the kitchen, which, after conducting him, she did. The sight of the fire, although it was of the smallest, was most welcome. She laid a few more peats upon it, and encouraged them to a blaze, remarking, with a sidelong look: “We daren’t do this, you see, sir, if the laird was about. The honest man would call it waste.”
“Is he dying?” I asked, for the sake of saying something; but she only shook her head for reply, and, going to a press at the other end of the large, vault-like kitchen, brought me some milk in a basin, and some oatcake upon a platter, saying,
“It’s not my house, you see, or I would have something better to set before the minister’s son.”
I was glad of any food however, and it was well for me that I ate heartily. I had got quite warm also before my father stepped into the kitchen, very solemn, and stood up with his back to the fire. The old woman set him a chair, but he neither sat down nor accepted the refreshment which she humbly offered him.
“We must be going,” he objected, “for it looks stormy, and the sooner we set out the better.”
“I’m sorry I can’t ask you to stop the night,” she said, “for I couldn’t make you comfortable. There’s nothing fit to offer you in the house, and there’s not a bed that’s been slept in for I don’t know how long.”
“Never mind,” said my father cheerfully. “The moon is up already, and we shall get home I trust before the snow begins to fall. Will you tell the man to get the horses out?”
When she returned from taking the message, she came up to my father and said, in a loud whisper,
“Is he in a bad way, sir?”
“He is dying,” answered my father.
“I know that,” she returned. “He’ll be gone before the morning. But that’s not what I meant. Is he in a bad way for the other world? That’s what I meant, sir.”
“Well, my good woman, after a life like his, we are only too glad to remember what our Lord told us—not to judge. I do think he is ashamed and sorry for his past life. But it’s not the wrong he has done in former time that stands half so much in his way as his present fondness for what he counts his own. It seems like to break his heart to leave all his little bits of property—particularly the money he has saved; and yet he has some hope that Jesus Christ will be kind enough to pardon him. I am afraid he will find himself very miserable though, when he has not one scrap left to call his own—not a pocket-knife even.”
“It’s dreadful to think of him flying through the air on a night like this,” said she.
“My good woman,” returned my father, “we know nothing about where or how the departed spirit exists after it has left the body. But it seems to me just as dreadful to be without God in the world, as to be without him anywhere else. Let us pray for him that God may be with him wherever he is.”
So saying, my father knelt down, and we beside him, and he prayed earnestly to God for the old man. Then we rose, mounted our horses, and rode away.
We were only about halfway home, when the clouds began to cover the moon, and the snow began to fall. Hitherto we had got on pretty well, for there was light enough to see the track, feeble as it was. Now, however, we had to keep a careful lookout. We pressed our horses, and they went bravely, but it was slow work at the best. It got darker and darker, for the clouds went on gathering, and the snow was coming down in huge dull flakes. Faster and thicker they came, until at length we could see nothing of the road before us, and were compelled to leave all to the wisdom of our horses. My father, having great confidence in his own little mare, which had carried him through many a doubtful and difficult place, rode first. I followed close behind. He kept on talking to me very cheerfully—I have thought since—to prevent me from getting frightened. But I had not a thought of fear. To be with my father was to me perfect safety. He was in the act of telling me how, on more occasions than one, Missy had got him through places where the road was impassable, by walking on the tops of the walls, when all at once both our horses plunged into a gulf of snow. The more my mare struggled, the deeper we sank in it. For a moment I thought it was closing over my head.
“Father! father!” I shouted.
“Don’t be frightened, my boy,” cried my father, his voice seeming to come from far away. “We are in God’s hands. I can’t help you now, but as soon as Missy has got quieter, I shall come to you. I think I know whereabouts we are. We’ve dropped right off the road. You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Not in the least,” I answered. “I was only frightened.”
A few moments more, and my mare lay or rather stuck quiet, with her neck and head thrown back, and her body deep in the snow. I put up my hands to feel. It rose above my head farther than I could reach. I got clear of the stirrups and scrambled up, first on my knees, and then on my feet. Standing thus upon the saddle, again I stretched my hands above my head, but still the broken wall of snow ascended above my reach. I could see nothing of my father, but I heard him talking to Missy. My mare soon began floundering again, so that I tumbled about against the sides of the hole, and grew terrified lest I should bring the snow down. I therefore cowered upon the mare’s back until she was quiet again. “Woa! Quiet, my lass!” I heard my father saying, and it seemed his Missy was more frightened than mine.
My fear was now quite gone, and I felt much inclined to laugh at the fun of the misadventure. I had as yet no idea of how serious a thing it might be. Still I had sense enough to see that something must be done—but what? I saw no way of getting out of the hole except by trampling down the snow upon the back of my poor mare, and that I could not think of; while I doubted much whether my father even could tell in what direction to turn for help or shelter.
Finding our way home, even if we got free, seemed out of the question. Again my mare began plunging violently, and this time I found myself thrown against some hard substance. I thrust my hand through the snow, and felt what I thought the stones of one of the dry walls common to the country. I might clear away enough of the snow to climb upon that; but then what next—it was so dark?
“Ranald!” cried my father; “how do you get on?”
“Much the same, father,” I answered.
“I’m out of the wreath,” he returned. “We’ve come through on the other side. You are better where you are I suspect, however. The snow is warmer than the air. It is beginning to blow. Pull your feet out and get right upon the mare’s back.”
“That’s just where I am, father—lying on her back, and pretty comfortable,” I rejoined.
All this time the snow was falling thick. If it went on like this, I should be buried before morning, and the fact that the wind was rising added to the danger of it. We were at the wrong end of the night too.
“I’m in a kind of ditch, I think, father,” I cried—the place we fell off on one side and a stone wall on the other.”
“That can hardly be, or I shouldn’t have got out,” he returned. “But now I’ve got Missy quiet, I’ll come to you. I must get you out, I see, or you will be snowed up. Woa, Missy! Good mare! Stand still.”
The next moment he gave a joyous exclamation.
“What is it, father?” I cried.
“It’s not a stone wall; it’s a peat-stack. That is good.”
“I don’t see what good it is. We can’t light a fire.”
“No, my boy; but where there’s a peat-stack, there’s probably a house.”
He began uttering a series of shouts at the top of his voice, listening between for a response. This lasted a good while. I began to get very cold.
“I’m nearly frozen, father,” I said, “and what’s to become of the poor mare—she’s got no clothes on?”
“I’ll get you out, my boy; and then at least you will be able to move about a little.”
I heard him shovelling at the snow with his hands and feet.
“I have got to the corner of the stack, and as well as I can judge you must be just round it,” he said.
“Your voice is close to me,” I answered.
“I’ve got a hold of one of the mare’s ears,” he said next. “I won’t try to get her out until I get you off her.”
I put out my hand, and felt along the mare’s neck. What a joy it was to catch my father’s hand through the darkness and the snow! He grasped mine and drew me towards him, then got me by the arm and began dragging me through the snow. The mare began plunging again, and by her struggles rather assisted my father. In a few moments he had me in his arms.
“Thank God!” he said, as he set me down against the peat-stack. “Stand there. A little farther. Keep well off for fear she hurt you. She must fight her way out now.”
He went back to the mare, and went on clearing away the snow. Then I could hear him patting and encouraging her. Next I heard a great blowing and scrambling, and at last a snort and the thunder of hoofs.
“Woa! woa! Gently! gently!—She’s off!” cried my father.
Her mother gave one snort, and away she went, thundering after her. But their sounds were soon quenched in the snow.
“There’s a business!” said my father. “I’m afraid the poor things will only go farther to fare the worse. We are as well without them, however; and if they should find their way home, so much the better for us. They might have kept us a little warmer though. We must fight the cold as we best can for the rest of the night, for it would only be folly to leave the spot before it is light enough to see where we are going.”
