damp. At dusk it began to freeze and a haze hung about the woods and
obscured the moon, but, by contrast with the rigors of winter, Thirlwell
sitting by the camp-fire, felt almost uncomfortably warm. Father Lucien
had taken off his furs and sat with a blanket over his shoulders on a
bundle of dry twigs. Both had hung their moccasins up to dry near the
heap of snapping branches. Wreaths of aromatic smoke slowly drifted past
and faded in the mist.

"One feels spring coming," said Father Lucien. "We have had a foretaste
to cheer us while winter lasts. The sun is moving north, and up here, it
always thrills me to watch the light drive back the dark. One could make
a homily on that."

"The dark soon returns," Thirlwell remarked, "I hate the long nights."

"There are men who like the dark, in spite of the terrors it has for
some."

"I wonder whether you are thinking of a particular example," Thirlwell
suggested, remembering a night watch he had kept while the blizzard
raged about Driscoll's shack.

"One does think of examples. Perhaps we generalize too much. It is easy
to let an individual stand for a type."

"If the individual is Black Steve Driscoll, I hope he's an uncommon
type."

Father Lucien made a sign of agreement. "Driscoll was in my thoughts. A
strange man; dogged and sullen, with a heart that kindness cannot touch.