The moon came up, gibbous and white and glittering, paler than silver;
and the forest became streaked and mottled with its light. A soft,
sudden wind tore the light and shade into eerie, dancing ribbons and
tatters and shreds. There were such sounds as are not heard in
daylight--moon sounds and cloud sounds and sounds of dark wind;
branches talked and other small voices answered in anxious undertones.
A moose rubbed his antlers and coughed. They heard his big body
hulking through a swamp down there in a well of darkness.

"I can't go so fast." Sylvie's shaken voice moved doubtfully. "I'm
tired."

She pulled at his arm and stopped. The whole forest seemed to sway
and stir and urge them to haste and secrecy.

"A storm's coming," Pete answered. "I can't carry you, Sylvie, unless
I leave my load."

"Do you think I'd let you carry me?" she answered through her set
teeth. "I'd rather die here than let you lift me up in your arms.
I'll go on till I drop. I don't care for the storm. But I can't walk
so fast. How can you see? The moon isn't--can't be, I mean--very,
very bright here in the woods."

"The moon? There's a big storm-cloud just going to wipe it out.
Listen! Don't you hear that thunder, that wind?"

The storm blew its distant trumpets, shouted louder, trampled the
world with great steps, crashed and came upon them with a wet, cold
blast. They were stunned with noise, dazzled with flashes, smothered