“Art warm?”
“Aye.”
Another hour and it was dusk and the snow came steadily, hugely, and where was sea or east or west or north or south could no longer be told with assurance. No house or hut, and now at last cold, great cold and weariness.
“Grey Farm may be yonder or yonder, but we cannot see. Lost is but lost—never forever lost!”
Night! Cold now and ever falling snow, and no path or all path. No light, no shape other than the wold shape and the snow shape and the night shape.
“Art very weary?”
“Yes, weary!”
“If we lie down here and sleep it will be to part with life. Let us try awhile longer. Just a fold of land may keep from us Grey Farm light.”
They tried, but no house or light arose. Only they heard something after a time.