He drew the bottle from his pocket, took another long draught from it, replaced it, and set out through “night and storm and darkness” and bitterest cold on his flight for life. More by instinct or accident than by light and knowledge he found his way around the back wall of the rectory garden to that country road which ran in front of the church, the rectory and Haymore Park, and crossed the highroad at about a mile distant. The snow fell thicker and faster, the wind rose higher and stronger, and the night grew colder and darker. He plunged onward through the deepening snow, sometimes almost smothered in the drifts, and requiring all the strength he could muster to struggle out of them. He lost his way, as it was inevitable he should. Even had it been day, instead of the darkest night that ever fell upon the earth, the highroad could not have been distinguished from the meadows except by certain tall landmarks. Now it was impossible to distinguish it. Gentleman Geff knew that he had lost his way, had hopelessly lost it, yet he floundered on through the black chaos on the chance of coming to some place where he could find shelter from the bitter cold, the beating wind, the bottomless drifts and the tempest of driving snow that seemed to be turned to a shower of ice spikes and stung like the sting of wasps. On and on he floundered and struggled, not daring to stop, for to stop would be to die. Again and again he applied himself to his bottle until it was empty. Then he let it fall, for indeed his numbed hands could scarcely hold it. He grew weaker and weaker; his limbs seemed too heavy to lift, especially through deep snow; his brain grew dizzy, his mind confused. He tried to keep his senses and his feet; he felt that if he sank to the ground it must be into his grave. At length the crisis came; his brain reeled, his limbs gave way, he lost consciousness and fell to the earth. Meanwhile, at the rectory, Longman took his supper with his mother in their warm, bright sitting-room adjoining the kitchen, everything around them looking so much more comfortable in contrast to the storm raging without. “I pity any poor wayfarer abroad to-night,” said Elspeth as she took the steaming coffee pot from the hob of the glowing grate and set it on the table, little guessing that the poor wretch they had been taking care of for two months was just setting out to brave it at its worst. “Oh, this is bad enough, but it is nothing at all to the awful storms among the Sierra Nevadas,” said Longman as he sat down to the table and took the cup of coffee his mother had poured out for him. And on her expressing her surprise and wonder, he began to entertain her with marrow-freezing stories of overwhelmed trains of emigrant wagons and buried villages of settlers among the snow mountains. This delayed him at the supper table so much longer than usual that he had but little time to take his “constitutional” on the covered front piazza.