‘I can’t sleep more,’ she answered. She rose slowly, stretching her arms. ‘Oh, I’m stiff and sore!’ she complained. All at once her voice became anxious and afraid. ‘Why are you awake?’ she demanded breathlessly. ‘What made you waken, Hugh?’

‘The cold, Terry,’ I said. ‘Nothing more.’

‘Nothing more? I thought—’ She paused as if revolving what she thought. ‘What are we going to do now?’ she went on. ‘Can we go home?’

‘I don’t know,’ I began.

‘Oh, I’m tired,’ she said, and shivered.

‘Sleep a while longer,’ I said.

‘And what are you going to do?’ she demanded.

‘Oh, I might climb to the top of the Farrow to spy. It’s as bright as day in the open.’

‘I’m going with you,’ she said.

‘But you’re tired out!’ I expostulated. ‘The snow will be deep in drifts up there—’

She would not be dissuaded. We scattered our fire before we set out to reach a viewpoint that would command our cave, its gorge, and the intervening waste. We trudged mechanically up the hill. Fatigue like poison in our veins dulled our senses. We were over the round summit of the Farrow before we halted and saw the cliffs behind our cave black against the snow in the distance.

‘It’s a long way off,’ Terry whispered.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘and bad going. Can you face it, Terry?’

‘What light is that?’ she cried. ‘See, Hugh! there below the rocks, near Loch Coulter!’

I stared for a while in the direction she indicated.

‘Fires,’ I said heavily at length; ‘three fires blazing.’

‘Fires! but what fires could be there?’ she demanded.

‘Camp fires,’ I returned.

The warmth engendered by our climbing ebbed out of us. The edged wind went through us as if we were naked.

‘We can’t stay here on this bare top,’ I said. ‘The cold will kill us. Are your feet wet, Terry? Mine are sopping. We’d best go down—at least we can have a fire there— We were mad not to take coats,’ I said as we descended.

‘We never dreamt—’ she began.

‘We should have dreamt,’ I interrupted her roughly. ‘We should know by this time what to expect.’

She kept silent for a time, following me through wreaths which hid morasses and holes amongst rocks.

‘Was it camp fires you said, Hugh?’ she asked breathlessly, hurrying to come up beside me. ‘Those men are camped, is that what you meant?’

‘Probably for the night,’ I assured her with more conviction than I felt. ‘The storm will chase them out of the mountains pretty soon.’

‘I’m glad for the snow,’ she said. ‘Do you think they’re on their way out of this country?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ I answered. ‘What would keep them in this bitter desolation?’