The imperfect glimmer of the half-dying and single candle threw into strong lights and shades the marked, rugged, and ferocious features of the cottager; and the eye of the traveller, glancing from the face to the limbs and frame, saw that whatever of violence the mind might design, the body might well execute.
The traveller sank into a gloomy reverie.

The wind howled--the rain beat--through the casement shone no solitary star--all was dark and sombre.

Should he proceed alone--might he not suffer a greater danger upon that wide and desert moor--might not the host follow--assault him in the dark?
He had no weapon save a stick.

But within he had at least a rude resource in the large kitchen poker that was beside him.

At all events it would be better to wait for the present.