“John'll go mad—clean mad! There beant nowheres such a good lad as our Reuben; and to be clemmed to death, and froze! O Lord, tak' pity on us, miserable sinners!”
For hours Olive sat by the old woman's bedside. The murky winter day soon closed in, and the snow began to fall; but still there was nothing heard save the wind howling in the forest. Often Margery started up, crying out that there were footsteps at the door, and then sank back in dumb despair.
At last there was a tramp of many feet on the frozen ground, the latch was lifted, and John Dent burst in.
He was a sturdy woodsman, of a race that are often seen in this forest region, almost giant-like in height and bulk. The snow lay thick on his uncovered head and naked breast, for he had stripped off all his upper garments to wrap round something that was clasped tightly in his arms. He spoke to no one, looked at no one, but laid his burden before the hearth supported on his knees. It was the corpse of a boy blue and shrivelled, like that of one frozen to death. He tried to chafe and bend the fingers, but they were as stiff as iron; he wrung the melting snow out of the hair, and, as the locks became soft and supple under his hand, seemed to think there was yet a little life remaining.
“Why dunnot ye stir, ye fools! Get t' blanket—pull't off the ould woman. I tell 'ee the lad's alive.”
No one moved, and then the frantic father began to curse and swear. He rushed into old Margery's room.
“Get up wi' thee. How darest thee lie hallooing there. Come and help t' lad!” and then he ran back to where poor Reuben's body lay extended on the hearth, surrounded by the other woodsmen, most of whom were pale with awe, some even melting into tears. John Dent dashed them all aside, and took his son again in his arms. Olive, from her corner, watched the writhings of his rugged features, but she ventured not to approach.
“Tak' heart, tak' heart, John!” said one of the men.
“He didna suffer much, I reckon,” said another. “My owd mother was nigh froze to death in t' forest, and her said 'twas just like dropping to sleep. An' luck ye, the poor lad's face be as quiet as a child.”
“John Dent, mon!” whispered one old keeper; “say thy prayers; thee doesna often do't, and thee'll want it now.”