Unfortunately, I did not put the proper interpretation upon Abthar's words--how possibly interpret them correctly? I assumed that the cold season in Sobul must be particularly rigorous, or must be invested with superstitious or religious importance. Hence I failed to ask questions that might have proved enlightening. "Then the winter here is a difficult time?" was my only answer to Abthar's muttered half-reveries. "You may indeed find it so!" he returned, his big deep-brown eyes snapping with a peculiar force. And then, after a pause, he continued, again with that pitying air I could not understand, "I am glad, young man, that you mentioned the winter. I think you had better make ready for it, since--who knows?--you may find it hard to bear." "Well, after all," I argued, "I have been used to cold weather in my own country." "It is not only the cold weather," he assured me. "But wait and learn--you may not even feel the winter. Yes, you too may escape the barren and frozen days." "Why should I escape any more than anyone else?" But he did not reply, and I thought it fruitless to pursue the discussion. As yet I had had little reason to suspect that the Ibandru were not as the other tribes huddled among the fastnesses of the Hindu Kush; and, in my ignorance, I overlooked completely the meaning behind his meager, succinct phrases. And so, instead of attempting to fathom a mystery, I turned the conversation into practical channels, and asked just how to prepare for the winter. "You can discover that for yourself," said Abthar, picking his way as if pondering an unfamiliar problem. "First of all, you must fill in your cabin window with a thick covering of dead boughs, and must cement all the cracks and empty places with clay, so as to hold out the blizzards. Then you must make yourself a cloak of goat's hide, and also must gather firewood, storing as much as possible within your cabin, and much more just outside. The most important thing, however, will be to provide food, for the cold months may be long, and you may be unable to find a crumb to keep you from starving." Not until long afterwards did I remember that Abthar had spoken as if I were to lead a hermit's life. At the time, I was too deeply absorbed in my own thoughts to see beyond his words; the question of how to obtain sufficient food was occupying me almost to the exclusion of other subjects, and I contented myself with asking how to earn my winter's board. "You need not earn it," asserted Abthar, frowning. "Must I remind you again that hospitality is not a lost virtue among the Ibandru? Merely go out into the fields and take what you want--all the grain you can bear away, apples from our orchards, plums and grapes for drying, nuts from our groves, beets and pumpkins and whatever vegetables our farms produce." Again I thanked Abthar--and again expressed my unwillingness to take so freely.