e that he was afraid Pavel
would never get well. We lay still and did not talk. Up there the stars
grew magnificently bright. Though we had come from such different parts
of the world, in both of us there was some dusky superstition that those
shining groups have their influence upon what is and what is not to
be. Perhaps Russian Peter, come from farther away than any of us, had
brought from his land, too, some such belief.

The little house on the hillside was so much the colour of the night
that we could not see it as we came up the draw. The ruddy windows
guided us--the light from the kitchen stove, for there was no lamp
burning.

We entered softly. The man in the wide bed seemed to be asleep. Tony and
I sat down on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms on the table in
front of us. The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported
the thatch overhead. Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and
he kept moaning. We waited. The wind shook the doors and windows
impatiently, then swept on again, singing through the big spaces. Each
gust, as it bore down, rattled the panes, and swelled off like the
others. They made me think of defeated armies, retreating; or of ghosts
who were trying desperately to get in for shelter, and then went moaning
on. Presently, in one of those sobbing intervals between the blasts,
the coyotes tuned up with their whining howl; one, two, three, then
all together--to tell us that winter was coming. This sound brought an
answer from the bed--a long complaining cry--as if Pavel were having bad
dreams or were waking to some old misery. Peter listened, but did not
stir. He was sitting on the floor by the kitchen stove. The coyotes
broke out again; yap, yap, yap--then the high whine. Pavel called for
something and struggled up on his elbow.

'He is scared of the wolves,' Antonia whispered to me. 'In his country
there are very many, and they eat men and women.' We slid closer
together along the bench.

I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed. His shirt was hanging
open, and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow bristle, rose and
fell horribly. He began to cough. Peter shuffled to his feet, caught up
the teakettle and mixed him some hot water and whiskey. The sharp smell
of spirits went through the room.

Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made Peter give him the bottle
and slipped it under his pillow, grinning disagreeably, as if he
had outwitted someone. His eyes fol