. . .
"One day we reached the end. It was near evening, and we came to the top
of a wooded knoll. My eyes were dancing in my head with fatigue and
weakness, but I could see below us, on the edge of the great bay, a large
hut, Esquimau lodges and Indian tepees near it. It was the Fort, my
cheerless prison-house."
He paused. The dog had been watching him with its flaming eyes; now it
gave a low growl, as though it understood, and pitied. In the interval
of silence the storm without broke. The trees began to quake and cry,
the light snow to beat upon the parchment windows, and the chimney to
splutter and moan. Presently, out on the bay they could hear the young
ice break and come scraping up the shore. Fawdor listened a while, and
then went on, waving his hand to the door as he began: "Think! this, and
like that always: the ungodly strife of nature, and my sick, disconsolate
life."
"Ever since?" asked Pierre. "All the time."
"Why did you not go back?"
"I was to wait for orders, and they never came.
Pages:
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107