His strength was becoming exhausted by the severe strain of wading through the deep drifts when, turning round a corner of the wall of rock beside him, his eyes were gladdened by a welcome sight.  Across the expanse of snow he could see shining a tiny bright light.  It was no reflection from the moonbeams, for it burned with a reddish glow amid the dazzling whiteness all around.  His courage revived; he was certainly not far from some habitation—­perhaps the very one he sought!  The thought filled him with fresh vigor; his wearied limbs gained new strength, and he climbed forward with energy and decision.  But, alas! in spite of his efforts, the light seemed to recede; it grew gradually smaller and less bright until he lost sight of it altogether.

The man’s powers of endurance were well-nigh spent.  His food had been eaten long before while he lay in shelter; his flask—­more carefully husbanded—­was now empty.  He almost gave up striving.  Why not give way to the almost uncontrollable desire to lie down and rest in the snow?  He could hold out no longer!

It was at that critical moment that through the intense stillness of the mountain solitudes he heard the bark of a dog!  Once more he picked up courage.  Staggering on a few steps further, he saw from behind an intervening rock, which had concealed it till then, the light from a window not far ahead!

All interest in his errand had departed long before.  What did he care if the mountain were full of illicit stills?  The only desire that possessed him now was that roused by the human instinct in every man in peril of his life—­the desire to escape from danger.  Oh, for sufficient strength to creep onwards!  If he could but hold out a little, shelter and warmth, and—­above all—­safety would be his!  So once again, wearily, painfully, and slowly, he plowed his way through the drifts toward the beacon that shone ahead.

* * * * * *

Within the modest dwelling to which Davie Forbes was wont to refer as his “hoosachie” (little house), on snow-clad Ben Sguarrach, the living-room looked cosy enough on that wild evening.  By the two windows—­one at the gable-end of the house, the other near the door—­no icy draught could enter, for both apertures were hermetically sealed!  All the ventilation deemed necessary during the daytime came through the usually open door, by which Maggie Jean was continually passing in and out, bent on domestic duties. (Like other Scottish housewives, she carried out much of her rougher and dirtier housework in the open.) At night, when work was over, the bright lamp and fire of glowing peat and blazing logs kept the house warm and snug; the pungent “reek” from the peat, too, acted as a healthy disinfectant.

Everything was scrupulously clean.  The flagged floor, the deal table, the dresser, with its shelves filled with crockery—­all spoke of frequent and thorough scrubbing.  The high mantel-shelf bore brass candlesticks—­more for ornament than use—­which had been polished till they shone like gold.  The very walls had been so often subjected to Maggie Jean’s whitewashing brush that they were spotless.