It was the deep, but
not distant, low of cattle.
A third time did the low boom through the storm.
Almost frantic with a living hope, Acton turned to Senior. He raised the
unconscious youth, and, by a mighty effort, got him upon his shoulders,
and then staggered off in the direction of the sound. He has a faint
recollection that he rolled over into the snow twice, that he waded
across a river, with the water up to his arm-pits, and always that there
was a weight on his neck that almost throttled him.... He felt that he
was going mad. Then at last--it seemed many hours--a building, wreathed
in white, seemed to spring up out of the storm. Delirious with joy,
Acton staggered towards it with his burden. Some figures moved towards
him, and Acton shouted for help as he pitched forward for the last time
into the snow. He dimly remembers strong hands raising him up and
helping him through a farmyard, which seemed somehow to tremble with the
low of cattle, and then he was in a chair, and a fire in front of him.
* * * * *
An hour or two afterwards, Acton was seated before a table, and, in the
intervals of gulping down hot coffee and swallowing food, told his
tale. The peasant farmer and his wife listened open-eyed with
astonishment. The farmer, from sheer amazement, dropped into the
broadest Westmoreland dialect.
"How far did thoo carry t'other yan?"
"Don't know, really. Seemed an awful way. I went through a river, I
know.
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