'This is awful,' he said, looking up at Saul.
Saul looked down upon the white face which was upturned to his, and the same strange impression of its being familiar to him stole upon him like a subtle vapour. An agonising fear was expressed in Beaver's countenance; he was frightened of death. He was weak, too, having just come out of a low fever, and it needed all his strength to keep his footing on the tree.
'Do you think we shall die here?' he asked.
'I see no hope,' replied Saul, pressing David's little daughter to his breast. The child had fallen to sleep. Saul's soul was too much troubled for converse, and the morning passed almost in silence. Saul lowered some food and drink to Beaver. 'I have very little brandy,' he said; 'but you shall share and share.' And when Beaver begged for more, he said, 'No, not yet; I must husband it. Remember, I have another life here in my arms to care for.'
The day advanced, and the storm continued; not a trace of the tents or of those who lay buried in them could be seen. The cruel white snow had made a churchyard of the golden gully!
Night fell, and brought darkness with it; and in the darkness Saul shuddered, with a new and sudden fear, for he felt something creeping up to him. It was Beaver's voice creeping up the tree, like an awful shadow.
'Saul Fielding,' it said, 'my time has come. The branches are giving way, and I am too weak to hold on.'
'God help you, Edward Beaver,' said Saul pityingly.
And David's little daughter murmured in her sleep, 'What's that, mother?' Saul hushed her by singing in a soft tender voice a nursery rhyme, and the child smiled in the dark, and her arms tightened round Saul's neck. It was a good thing for them that they were together; the warmth of their bodies was a comfort, and in some measure a safeguard to them.
When Saul's soft singing was over, he heard Beaver sobbing, beneath him. 'I used to sing that once,' the man sobbed in weak tones, 'to my little daughter.'