CHAPTER XVII.
THAT SAME NIGHT.
The wind had now risen to a hurricane--a rage of swiftness.

The house was like a rock assaulted by the waves of an ocean-tempest.
The laird had closed all the shutters, and drawn the old curtains across them: through windows and shutters, the curtains waved in the penetrating blasts.

The sturdy old house did not shake, for nothing under an earthquake could have made it tremble.

The snow was fast gathering in sloped heaps on the window-sills, on the frames, on every smallest ledge where it could lie.

In the midst of the blackness and the roaring wind, the house was being covered with spots of silent whiteness, resting on every projection, every roughness even, of the building.