"I can't carry you, Sylvie, unless
I leave my load."
"Do you think I'd let you carry me?" she answered through her set
teeth. "I'd rather die here than let you lift me up in your arms.
I'll go on till I drop. I don't care for the storm. But I can't walk
so fast. How can you see? The moon isn't--can't be, I mean--very,
very bright here in the woods."
"The moon? There's a big storm-cloud just going to wipe it out.
Listen! Don't you hear that thunder, that wind?"
The storm blew its distant trumpets, shouted louder, trampled the
world with great steps, crashed and came upon them with a wet, cold
blast. They were stunned with noise, dazzled with flashes, smothered
and beaten with long, wet whips. Under a big rocking pine which
shouted with a hundred confused tongues they found a dangerous
shelter. Not far from them a tree was struck, splitting their ears,
half stunning them. When the worst was over, Pete drew Sylvie out
relentlessly and started in the heavily falling rain. The storm was
drawing away, but the night was still impenetrably black. They walked
for a few groping yards when Pete gave a sudden desperate laugh and
stopped.
"What's the good of this! We're off the trail.
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