It was a cold dawn, that of late October, white with frost, and Harry shivered.

There was still food in his knapsack, and he ate hungrily as he rode through the deserted country, and wondered what had become of Shepard and the others.
It was not yet full day.

The grass was still white with frost.

The early wind, blowing out of the north, brought an increased chill.
The food Harry had eaten defended him somewhat against the cold, but his body had been weakened by so much riding and loss of sleep that he found it wise to unroll his blanket and wrap it around his shoulders and chest.
He was, perhaps, affected by the cold and anxiety, but the country seemed singularly lonesome and depressing.

Sweeping the whole circle of the horizon with his glasses, he saw several farm houses, but no smoke was rising from their chimneys.