THE NIGHT WATCH
As the hours passed, the tempest gained in speed. Stout-built as it was, the foresters’ hut shook with the gale’s mishandling, and the din out of doors was as full of cries as if every warlock and hellhound had been loosed from Langstrothdale to Logie.
Causleen and Hardcastle sat on the rough benches built on each side of the hut. They faced each other across the fireglow, and between them Storm slept on, making the most of luxury.
“It would be fierce, but could not last at this time of the year,” said Causleen, with grave, accusing anger. “You promised that.”
“And could not keep the promise. I’m only the last fool who thought himself a prophet where Logie weather was concerned.”
“If the snow has stopped—go see if the snow has stopped—I should not care for the wind, however hard it blew. We could get up to Logie somehow.”
Her eyes were bright—too bright, to Hardcastle’s thinking—and she seemed to have some stubborn feud with him.
“How can we, through the drifts? Be glad we’re sheltered here.”
“Are you a man at all? I bade you go and see if we could get to Logie.”
To humour her, he went out and looked about him. There was a clear space still in front of the sheltered doorway, and little stir of wind. The hut lay in a little harbour of its own, secure; but a little space away the gale ravened through the snow as Storm at his reddest had never harried the grey ewes.