THE NIGHT WATCHAs the hours passed, the tempest gained in speed. Stout-built as it was, the foresters’ hut shook with the gale’s mishandling, and the din out of doors was as full of cries as if every warlock and hellhound had been loosed from Langstrothdale to Logie.
Causleen and Hardcastle sat on the rough benches built on each side of the hut. They faced each other across the fireglow, and between them Storm slept on, making the most of luxury.
“It would be fierce, but could not last at this time of the year,” said Causleen, with grave, accusing anger. “You promised that.”
“And could not keep the promise. I’m only the last fool who thought himself a prophet where Logie weather was concerned.”
“If the snow has stopped—go see if the snow has stopped—I should not care for the wind, howe
