Trafford was trying to speak again. “I got—”
“Yes?”
“Got my leg in that crack.”
Was he able to advise her? She looked at him, and then perceived that she must bind up his head and face. She knelt behind him and raised his head on her knee. She had a thick silk neck muffler, and this she supplemented by a band she cut and tore from her inner vest. She bound this, still warm from her body, about him, and wrapped her dark cloak round his shoulders. The next thing was a fire. Five yards away, perhaps, a great mass of purple [v]gabbro hung over a patch of nearly snowless moss. A hummock to the westward offered shelter from the bitter wind, the icy draught, that was soughing down the valley. Always in Labrador, if you can, you camp against a rock surface; it shelters you from the wind, guards your back.
“Dear!” she said.
“Awful hole,” said Trafford.
“What?” she cried sharply.
“Put you in an awful hole,” he said. “Eh?”
“Listen,” she said, and shook his shoulder. “Look! I want to get you up against that rock.”
“Won’t make much difference,” replied Trafford, and opened his eyes. “Where?” he asked.