Hardy stepped into the cold room and slammed the door behind him. He dropped into a chair, breathing heavily. A sudden sensation of suffocation seized him. He pushed the fur hood back from his head, loosened the belt of the parka covering his uniform.
“Haven’t been feeling really fit for the past three days,” he muttered. Pulling himself together with an effort, he came to his feet, investigated the one room and built-on woodshed adjoining. He struck a match to the candle fixed in a bottle, for the room was growing dark.
“Well stocked cabin,” he said as he gazed around.
Again he fell heavily in a chair, gazing before him with anxious eyes. After a time he kindled a fire on the big stone hearth.
Slowly the weather changed as the night wore on. The north wind came with a bellow and roar.
Half dozing, Hardy listened to the mingled voices of the wind and fire as he sat before a blazing log. His eyes were glittering with the fever that ran in his veins.
“Glad I came across this cabin,” he muttered, with thick tongue and dry, swollen lips. “Must be bilious. Be all right to-morrow. I must!”
The storm increased in fury. The blizzard howled and tore over the squat cabin. The snow piled up against its wall logs as though seeking the warmth within.
During the night came the crunch, crunch of webs. A white wraith-like figure came through the gloom, eager expectant eyes peered from frozen eyelashes at the light wavering from the cabin’s fire-lit frost glazed window.
Stiff hands fumbled at the latch, finally released it. The wind swept the door in with a crash.