She would not believe it; and she cried again, her voice almost losing itself in the roar of the storm:
“Death! Death! Death, come back! Here, Death—good old fellow! Come back!”
Again she waited and listened.
The wind and storm were all the sounds she heard.
Then it seemed to come to her all at once that she was alone. Even her brute protector had deserted her.
All alone in the tempest that was raging through the forest like a thousand furies!
“He has gone!” she quavered, hugging the tree-trunk closer, as a gust of wind wilder than any before swept through the forest, uprooting a large sycamore not far away, and blowing the covering off from her head; letting the sleet dash in its sharp, cutting way into her face. “He is gone,” she repeated with slow iteration, “and I am all alone!”
She thought of returning to the cabin; but she dared not face the storm. It was almost certain death to attempt to make her way home with the storm at its hight and while trees were falling almost constantly, and branches flying hither and thither all the time, crashing through the tree-tops and whirling in mid-air as though they had been but feathers instead of massive pieces of wood.
She dared not venture out of her shelter. So she shrunk back as far as possible and waited. Perhaps the storm would abate somewhat after a while. She hoped it would; and this was her one bit of comfort.
In an hour’s time the tempest seemed to have spent its fury. The wild roar of the wind had dwindled to a low, mournful moaning, and the sleet had ceased to fall; but the rain fell in a slow, monotonous drizzle that seemed likely to continue through the night.