The blood throbbed at her brain and the quickened circulation warmed her till she loosened the cloak at her throat and wondered, in a dazed sort of way, why she had put it on on such a stifling night.  Then she remembered the snow and eagerly uplifted her flushed cheeks that the falling flakes might cool them.

But of the icy grip of the storm she was wholly unconscious.  There was a mad exhilaration in facing the wild elements on such a night, the exertion of forcing through the storm chimed in with her mood; each snowdrift through which she fought her way was so much cruel injustice beaten down.  She felt that she had the strength and courage to walk to the end of the earth and she went on and on, never thinking of the storm, or her destination, or where she would rest that night.  Her head felt light, as if she had been drinking wine, and more than once she stopped to mop the perspiration from her forehead.  How absurd for the snow to fall on such a sultry night, and foolish of those people who had turned her out to die, thinking it was cold—­the thermometer must be 100.  She paused to get her breath; a blast of icy wind caught her cape, and almost succeeded in robbing her of it, and the chill wrestled with the fever that was consuming her, and she realized for the first time that it was cold.

“Well, what next?” she asked herself, throwing back her head and unconsciously assuming the attitude of a creature brought to bay but still unconquered.

“What next?” She repeated it with the dull despair of one who has nothing further to fear in the way of suffering.  The Fates had spent themselves on her, she no longer had the power to respond.  Suppose she should become lost in a snowdrift?  “Well, what did it matter?”

Then came one of those unaccountable clearings of the mental vision that nature seems to reserve for the final chapter.  Her quickened brain grasped the tragedy of her life as it never had before.  She saw it with impersonal eyes.  Anna Moore was a stranger on whose case she could sit with unbiased judgment.  Her mind swung back to the football game in the golden autumn eighteen months ago, and she heard the cheers and saw the swarms of eager, upturned faces and the dots of blue and crimson, like flowers, in a great waving field.  What a panorama of life, and force, and struggle it had been!  How typical of life, and the end—­but no, the end was not yet; there must be some justice in life, some law of compensation.  God must hear at last!

The wind came tearing down from, the pine forest, surging through the hills till it became a roar.  Ah, it had sounded like that at the game.  They had called “Rah, Rah Sanderson” till they were hoarse, “Sanderson, Rah!  Sander-son!  Rah!  Rah!” The crackling forest seemed to have gone mad with the echo of his name.  It had become the keynote of the wind.  Rah!  Rah!  Sanderson!

“You can’t escape him even in death” something seemed to whisper in her ear.  “Ha-ha, Sanderson, San-der-son.”  She put her hands to her ears to shut out the hateful sound, but she heard it, like the wail of a lost soul; this time faint and far off:  Sander-son—­San-der-son.  It was above her in the groaning, creaking branches of the trees, in the falling snow, in the whipping wind, the mockery would not be stilled.