Mid-winter gripped the dead world;
and the twilight air was deathly chill. The tall naked treetops
stood gaunt and wraithlike against a leaden sky.
To the north, the darkness was deepest. Evil little puffs of gale
stirred the powdery snow into myriads of tiny dancing white
devils. It had been a fearful winter, thus far; colder than for a
score of years; so cold that many a wild woodland creature, which
usually kept far back in the mountains, had ventured down nearer
to civilization for forage and warmth.
Deer tracks a-plenty had been seen, close up to the gates of the
Place. And, two days ago, in the forest, half a mile away, the
Master had come upon the half-human footprints of a young bear.
Starvation stalked abroad, yonder in the white hills. And need
for provender had begun to wax stronger among the folk of the
wilderness than their inborn dread of humans.
"There's a big snowstorm coming up," ruminated the Master, as he
scanned the grim weather-signs. "A blizzard, perhaps. I--I hope
it won't delay any incoming steamers. I hope at least one of them
will dock on schedule.
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