“I admit to my confusion, dear Mortimer. You want me to die, I suppose, catch my death of cold, risk life and limb, and for what, a measly band of ingrates who were foolish enough to get stranded out there in the bitter snow? I am sorry, but it’s not my business—”
“Your business,” replied Mortimer, “is what I tell you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said,” repeated the old man, “you will do as you’re told. Now get your coat. We’re going.”
“I’ll have nothing to do with this,” came continued protest. “This foolishness! What do you propose to do? Are we two to galivant through the woods on the blind hope of finding them? And then what are we to do assuming we do find them? Drag them back to safety? I can’t—”
Mortimer shoved a thick coat into his friend’s arms. “You’ll need this.”
Despite his further mumblings, the large man fit his arms into his coat, and the two of them went out into the snow, their voices calling through the dreary night.
The moon was high, and the sky quite clear. Her soft light shone down upon the wintry earth. Caught in twinkling ice, the world was made bright by a thousand glittering diamonds. The old snow was hardened, but still a virgin white—not a footprint to be seen. The air was still, but sharp. There is beauty in these deadly things, and wonder in such silence.
The two old men searched the night for the lost youths. Mortimer would bring them back.
Tale Told 