So we chatted away for a while.
“I wonder if it is nearly day yet. I do not in the least know how long we have slept. I wonder if my watch is going. I forgot to wind it up last night. If it has stopped I shall know it is near daylight.”
He held his watch to his ear: alas! it was ticking vigorously. He felt for the keyhole, and wound it up. After that we employed ourselves in repeating as many of the metrical psalms and paraphrases of Scripture as we could recollect, and this helped away a good part of the weary time.
But it went very slowly, and I was growing so cold that I could hardly bear it.
“I’m afraid you feel very cold, Ranald,” said my father, folding me closer in his arms. “You must try not to go to sleep again, for that would be dangerous now. I feel more cramped than cold.”
As he said this, he extended his legs and threw his head back, to get rid of the uneasiness by stretching himself. The same moment, down came a shower of peats upon our heads and bodies, and when I tried to move, I found myself fixed. I could not help laughing.
“Father,” I cried, as soon as I could speak, “you’re like Samson: you’ve brought down the house upon us.”
“So I have, my boy. It was very thoughtless of me. I don’t know what we are to do now.”
“Can you move, father? I can’t,” I said.
“I can move my legs, but I’m afraid to move even a toe in my boot for fear of bringing down another avalanche of peats. But no—there’s not much danger of that: they are all down already, for I feel the snow on my face.”