“Aye,” replied I, “something is happening that will wipe out our traces and my bloody track.”
“And what is that?”
“Snow: see, ’tis falling fast.”
She bent over, and listen’d to her father’s breathing.
“’Twill kill him,” she said simply.
I pull’d some more fronds of the bracken to cover them both. She thank’d me, and offer’d to relieve me in my watch: which I refus’d. And indeed, by lying down I should have caught my death, very likely.
The big flakes drifted down between the pines: till, as the moon paled, the ground about me was carpeted all in white, with the foliage black as ink above it. Time after time, as I tramp’d to and fro, I paus’d to brush the fresh-forming heap from the sleepers’ coverlet, and shake it gently from the tresses of the girl’s hair. The old man’s face was covered completely by the buff-coat: but his breathing was calm and regular as any child’s.
Day dawn’d. Awaking Mistress Delia, I ask’d her to keep watch for a time, while I went off to explore. She crept out from her bed with a little shiver of disgust.
“Run about,” I advis’d, “and keep the blood stirring.”
She nodded: and looking back, as I strode down the hill, I saw her moving about quickly, swinging her arms, and only pausing to wave a hand to me for goodspeed.