It was no longer a faithful likeness, of course; still, it
was a likeness. There was no other man in all the world like Hugh! He
was made of odd, fantastic fragments, of ill-fitting parts--physically,
mentally, spiritually. It was as if a soul had seen itself in a
crooked mirror and had fashioned a form to match the distorted image.
Hugh wouldn't, couldn't force himself to be inconspicuous. He would
swagger; he would talk loud; his big, beautiful voice would challenge
attention, create an audience. He would have some impossible, splendid
tale to tell.
Pete sat up straighter in his chair, gingerly rearranging the ankle,
and lifted his blue and haunted eyes--the eyes of the North--to the
window.
The dazzle of noon had faded to a glow. The short winter day was
nearly done. There would be a long violet twilight, and then, the
blaze of stars.
But for his aching ankle Pete would be sliding out on soundless skis,
now poised for breathless flight down some long slope, now leaping
fallen trees or buried ditches. He spent half of his wild young
restlessness in such long night runs when, in a sort of ecstasy, he
outraced the stifled longings of his exiled youth. But there would
be no ski-running for several nights now.
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