It seemed to Philip, as he stood with the club ready in his hand,
that the world had ceased to breathe in its anticipation of the
thing for which he was waiting--and listening. The wind had
dropped dead. There was not a rustle in the tree-tops, not a sound
to break the stillness. The silence, so close after storm, was an
Arctic phenomenon which did not astonish him, and yet the effect
of it was almost painfully gripping. Minor sounds began to impress
themselves on his senses--the soft murmur of the falling snow, his
own breath, the pounding of his heart. He tried to throw off the
strange feeling that oppressed him, but it was impossible. Out
there in the darkness he would have sworn that there were eyes and
ears strained as his own were strained. And the darkness was
lifting. Shadows began to disentangle themselves from the gray
chaos. Trees and bushes took form, and over his head the last
heavy windrows of clouds shouldered their way out of the sky.

Still, as the twilight of dawn took the place of night, he did not
move, except to draw himself a little closer into the shelter of
the scrub spruce behind which he had hidden himself. He wondered
if Celie would be frightened at his absence. But he could not
compel himself to go on--or back. SOMETHING WAS COMING! He was as
positive of it as he was of the fact that night was giving place
to day. Yet he could see nothing--hear nothing. It was light
enough now for him to see movement fifty yards away, and he kept
his eyes fastened on the little open across which their trail had
come. If Olaf Anderson the Swede had been there he might have told