If old Marlowe proved a man of the same inflexible stamp, he was lost.
But he sat still, waiting and listening.

Round that lonely cottage, as he well knew, the wind swept from whatever quarter it was blowing; sighing softly, or wailing, moaning, or roaring past it, as ceaselessly as the sound of waves against a fisherman's hut on the sea-coast.

It was crying and sobbing now, rising at intervals into a shriek, as if to warn him of coming peril.

He went to the window and met the black face of the night, hiding everything from his eye.

Neither moon nor star gleamed in the sky.