and beaten with long, wet whips. Under a big rocking pine which
shouted with a hundred confused tongues they found a dangerous
shelter. Not far from them a tree was struck, splitting their ears,
half stunning them. When the worst was over, Pete drew Sylvie out
relentlessly and started in the heavily falling rain. The storm was
drawing away, but the night was still impenetrably black. They walked
for a few groping yards when Pete gave a sudden desperate laugh and
stopped.

"What's the good of this! We're off the trail. We'll have to wait
for the light. My God! How cold and wet and trembling you are." He
threw down his pack, took off his coat, wet only on the outside, and
wrapped it closely about her. She felt that he parted branches for
her, and she knew that they were in a dry, still, scented place whose
walls stirred and breathed. She sank down beside him on the smooth
pine-needles and crept close. They were giddy, beaten and confused;
they felt each other's trembling warmth; for greater comfort she
tucked her hands under his arm. Her head dropped back against his
shoulder so that her breath fell on his cheek. He felt the silent
tears of her humiliation, hot and bitter and human after the cold,
impersonal wetness of rain. It was as though a hand drew them together
in the darkness; they moved numbly at the same instant, by the same
impulse; then with a sort of convulsion they were in each other's
arms. Cold, wet, tremulous, their lips met. The night became the
beating of a heart.




CHAPTER XIV