together; and he knelt before each, breaking fresh snow over the hollows
and carefully hiding the blood. And now a great happiness filled his
heart; interrupted once or twice as he worked by a feeling that someone
was following and watching him. Once he turned northwards and gazed,
making a telescope of his hands. He saw nothing, and fell again to his
long task.


Within the hut the sick man cried softly to himself. Faed, the Snipe,
and Cooney slept uneasily, and muttered in their dreams. The Gaffer lay
awake, thinking. After Bill, George Lashman; and after George? . . .
Who next? And who would be the last--the unburied one? The men were
weakening fast; their wits and courage coming down at the end with a
rush. Faed and Long Ede were the only two to be depended on for a day.
The Gaffer liked Long Ede, who was a religious man. Indeed he had a
growing suspicion that Long Ede, in spite of some amiable laxities of
belief, was numbered among the Elect: or might be, if interceded for.
The Gaffer began to intercede for him silently; but experience had
taught him that such "wrestlings," to be effective, must be noisy, and
he dropped off to sleep with a sense of failure . . .

The Snipe stretched himself, yawned, and awoke. It was seven in the
morning: time to prepare a cup of tea. He tossed an armful of logs on
the fire, and the noise awoke the Gaffer, who at once inquired for Long
Ede. He had not returned. "Go you up to the roof. The lad must be
frozen." The Snipe climbed the ladder, pushed open the trap, and came
back, reporting that Long Ede was nowhere to be seen. The old man
slipped a jumper over his suits of clothing--already three deep--reached
for a gun, and moved to the door. "Take a cup of something warm to
fortify," the Snipe advised. "The kettle won't be five minutes