Little rivulets of water were running down it.

Rocks and stumps were in their way, and underfoot it was slippery.

Marette's fingers were clinging to his again, as she had held to them on the wild race up to Kedsty's bungalow from the barracks.

He had tingled then in the sheer joy of their thrill, but it was a different thrill that stirred him now--an overwhelming emotion of possessorship.

This night, with its storm and its blackness, was the most wonderful of all his nights.
He sensed nothing of its discomfort.