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Nicholas's dog-driver stared, winked, and wiped his weeping, smoke-reddened eyes. "Is he in there?" Mac looked towards the tent. Andrew nodded between coughs. "What's he doing in there? Call him out," ordered Mac. "He no walk." Mac's hard face took on a look of cast-iron tragedy. The wind, veering round again, had brought the last words to the priest on the other side of the fire.
A spluttering candle showed the one occupant, a man, down on his knees and blowing lustily into the fire-box of a smoky Yukon stove. She cast off the lower flap-fastenings and entered. The man still blew into the stove, unaware of his company. Frona coughed, and he raised a pair of smoke-reddened eyes to hers. "Certainly," he said, casually enough. "Fasten the flaps and make yourself comfortable."
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