"Dan Cooney"--the Gaffer closed his book and leaned out--"go back to
your bed."

"I won't, Sir. Not unless--"

"Go back."

"Flesh and blood--"

"Go back." And for the third time that night Cooney went back.

The Gaffer leaned a little farther over the ledge, and addressed the
sick man.

"George, I went to Bill's grave not six hours agone. The snow on it
wasn't even disturbed. Neither beast nor man, but only God, can break
up the hard earth he lies under. I tell you that, and you may lay to
it. Now go to sleep."


Long Ede crouched on the frozen ridge of the hut, with his feet in the
sleeping-bag, his knees drawn up, and the two guns laid across them.
The creature, whatever its name, that had tried the door, was nowhere to
be seen; but he decided to wait a few minutes on the chance of a shot;
that is, until the cold should drive him below. For the moment the
clear tingling air was doing him good. The truth was Long Ede had begun
to be afraid of himself, and the way his mind had been running for the
last forty-eight hours upon green fields and visions of spring.
As he put it to himself, something inside his head was melting.
Biblical texts chattered within him like running brooks, and as they