In it was the biting chill of the Arctic, and overhead was a gray-dun mass of racing cloud.

A dozen times Jean turned his face anxiously from the fire into the north, and held wet fingers high over his head to see if in the air was that peculiar sting by which the forest man forecasts the approach of snow.
At last he said to Philip: "The wind will grow, M'sieur," and picked up his axe.
Philip followed with his own, and they piled about Josephine's tent a thick protection of spruce and cedar boughs.

Then together they brought three or four big logs to the fire.

After that Philip went into their own tent, stripped off his outer garments, and buried himself in his sleeping bag.

For a long time he lay awake and listened to the increasing wail of the wind in the tall spruce tops.