It seemed to Philip, as he stood with the club ready in his hand, that the world had ceased to breathe in its anticipation of the thing for which he was waiting--and listening.

The wind had dropped dead.

There was not a rustle in the tree-tops, not a sound to break the stillness.
The silence, so close after storm, was an Arctic phenomenon which did not astonish him, and yet the effect of it was almost painfully gripping.

Minor sounds began to impress themselves on his senses--the soft murmur of the falling snow, his own breath, the pounding of his heart.

He tried to throw off the strange feeling that oppressed him, but it was impossible.