The pine-trees and cedars stood starkly under their raiment of snow--
mighty forest giants--beneath them clustered prickly firs, junipers
and alders. The stillness was profound. Demid sped from trap to trap,
from snare to snare, over the silent soundless snow. He strangled the
beasts; he fired, and the crack of his gun resounded through the
empty space. He sought for the trail of the elks and wolf-packs. He
descended to the river and watched for otters, caught bewildered fish
amidst the broken ice, and set his nets afresh. The scenes all round
him were old and familiar. The majesty of day died down in the west
on a flaming pyre of vivid clouds, and the quivering, luminous
streamers of the north re-appeared.
Standing in his plot of ground in the evening, he cut up the fish and
meat, hung it up to freeze, threw pieces to the bear, ate some
himself, washed his hands in ice-cold water, and sat down beside
Marina--big and rugged, his powerful legs wide apart, his hands
resting heavily on his knees. The room became stifling with his
presence. He smiled down quietly and good-naturedly at Marina.
The lamp shone cheerfully. Outside was snow, frost, and peace. Makar
approached and lounged on the floor. There was an atmosphere of quiet
joy and comfort in the chapel-like room. The walls cracked in the
frost; some towels embroidered in red and blue with reindeer and
cocks hung over them.
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