All interest in his errand had departed long before. What did he care if the mountain were full of illicit stills? The only desire that possessed him now was that roused by the human instinct in every man in peril of his life—the desire to escape from danger. Oh, for sufficient strength to creep onwards! If he could but hold out a little, shelter and warmth, and—above all—safety would be his! So once again, wearily, painfully, and slowly, he plowed his way through the drifts toward the beacon that shone ahead.
* * * * * *
Within the modest dwelling to which Davie Forbes was wont to refer as his "hoosachie" (little house), on snow-clad Ben Sguarrach, the living-room looked cosy enough on that wild evening. By the two windows—one at the gable-end of the house, the other near the door—no icy draught could enter, for both apertures were hermetically sealed! All the ventilation deemed necessary during the daytime came through the usually open door, by which Maggie Jean was continually passing in and out, bent on domestic duties. (Like other Scottish housewives, she carried out much of her rougher and dirtier housework in the open.) At night, when work was over, the bright lamp and fire of glowing peat and blazing logs kept the house warm and snug; the pungent "reek" from the peat, too, acted as a healthy disinfectant.
Everything was scrupulously clean. The flagged floor, the deal table, the dresser, with its shelves filled with crockery—all spoke of frequent and thorough scrubbing. The high mantel-shelf bore brass candlesticks—more for ornament than use—which had been polished till they shone like gold. The very walls had been so often subjected to Maggie Jean's whitewashing brush that they were spotless.
Under the overhanging ingle-nook, in which a ham or two were hanging overhead, sat Davie in his own special corner and his own special chair, calmly smoking; opposite sat Jock, a black-bearded man of sturdy build, who was also smoking. Both were listening to Maggie Jean, who, seated near her father, was reading in a monotonous voice the choice extracts from a three-days-old local paper. Now and again, as the snow beat more forcibly upon the window, or the wind moaned round the corner of the house, or drove the peat reek in gusts into the room, she would pause and glance anxiously through the uncurtained window near the door. For Peter had gone down to the croft to bring back a bag of turnips for her "coo" during this unforeseen spell of fierce weather. The storm had come on suddenly, and provender was low; so Peter had volunteered his services in his characteristically shy way (which a southron, perhaps, would have taken for an indication of surliness), and his sister, in equally characteristic Scottish fashion, had accepted the offer with the air of one who had a right to it. Yet all the while (I am sure, for I know the type well!) Peter was full of tender compassion for the poor beast, and Maggie Jean's heart overflowed with solicitude for her brother's safe return.
"Eh! But it's a fearfu' nicht, and nae mistak'!" old Davie would exclaim, as the storm made itself felt more than usual.
"Aye, aye, it is thot," was Jock's imperturbable reply.
And Maggie Jean, with an anxious sigh, would resume her slow chant, punctuated by occasional glances outside.
But a dash at the door from without, and Don's joyful barking, told of the return of the dog and his master. Snow-clad Peter, with his lantern, looking like some rustic Santa Claus—all white from head to foot—made his appearance, and with much stamping and shaking off of the snow from his garments, divested himself of his wraps, and joined the family circle, pushing his way past Jock to the corner nearest the fire, his dog following at his heels.
"Eh! But it's bin gey stormy!" he said as he filled his pipe.