If you had stood there in the edge of the bleak spruce forest, with
the wind moaning dismally through the twisting trees - midnight of
deep December - the Transcontinental would have looked like a thing
of fire; dull fire, glowing with a smouldering warmth, but of
strange ghostliness and out of place. It was a weird shadow,
helpless and without motion, and black as the half-Arctic night
save for the band of illumination that cut it in twain from the
first coach to the last, with a space like an inky hyphen where the
baggage car lay. Out of the North came armies of snow-laden clouds
that scudded just above the earth, and with these clouds came now
and then a shrieking mockery of wind to taunt this stricken
creation of man and the creatures it sheltered - men and women who
had begun to shiver, and whose tense white faces stared with
increasing anxiety into the mysterious darkness of the night that
hung like a sable curtain ten feet from the car windows.
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