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Up in Ardmuirland by Michael Barrett
page 82 of 165 (49%)

It was not quite dark, but the gray curtain of falling snow shut out
everything from his vision; no sound could be heard but the rush of the
wind over the slopes, and an occasional wail nearer at hand, as it
swished round a corner of the rocks behind him. He dare not attempt to
climb higher, nor dare he descend. What unexplored expanses of
moorland might lie beyond, to lure him farther away from the chance of
shelter or rescue? What hidden pitfalls might not lurk below, to trap
his inexperienced feet and hurl him to his death?

Warmed by his exercise, he crept back into his recess to await the
possibility of some cessation of the storm. Busied with anxious
thoughts, he failed to notice the gradual lessening of the snow-flakes
and the lull in the wind beyond the rocks. It was only when the moon
shone out clearly once more that he perceived that the storm was over.

Courage returned at once. He left his shelter and tried to find the
direction of the upward path. Light had dispelled his fears. It was
better to trust himself to the dangers of the higher level than to risk
a fall into some crevice on the downward way. Before his eyes lay
stretched out a vast snowfield! More dazzlingly white in the moonlight
than before, a thick carpet of snow lessened every inequality of
surface; it softened every hard outline, while it filled up
depressions. Sounding every step as he advanced, he trod slowly
upwards; plowing now and again into drifts waist-deep, staggering over
submerged bowlders and stony heaps whose unexpected existence would
often imperil his balance, he managed to climb considerably higher.
But his progress was necessarily slow. He kept as near as possible to
the rocky ridge which had sheltered him; for on his other hand the
ground sloped downwards in a steep gradient, and the treacherous snow
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