Long, very long was his search; he grew hot and forgot all fear
except a spasm of terror lest his light should burn low and die
out. The bleating had quite ceased now, and there was not even a
sigh to guide him; but he knew that near him the lambs must be,
and he did not waver or despair.

He did not pray; praying in the morning had been no use; but he
trusted in God, and he laboured hard, toiling to and fro, seeking
in every nook and behind each stone, and straining every muscle
and nerve, till the sweat rolled in a briny dew off his forehead,
and his curls dripped with wet. At last, with a scream of joy, he
touched some soft close wool that gleamed white as the white
snow. He knelt down on the ground, and peered behind the stone by
the full light of his lantern; there lay the little lambs,--two
little brothers, twin brothers, huddled close together, asleep.
Asleep? He was sure they were asleep, for they were so silent and
still.

He bowed over them, and kissed them, and laughed, and cried,
and kissed them again. Then a sudden horror smote him; they were
so very still. There they lay, cuddled close, one on another, one
little white head on each little white body,--drawn closer than
ever together, to try and get warm.

He called to them, he touched them, then he caught them up in
his arms, and kissed them again, and again, and again. Alas! they
were frozen and dead. Never again would they leap in the long
green grass, and frisk with each other, and lie happy by Katte's
side; they had died calling for their mother, and in the long,
cold, cruel night, only death had answered.