There was no moon.

The stars could not struggle through the vapor that lay beneath them.

There was no wind.
It was a cold and silent night.
Rotha stood at the end of the lonnin, where the lane to Shoulthwaite joined the pack-horse road.

She was wrapped in a long woollen cloak having a hood that fell deep over her face.

Her father had parted from her half an hour ago, and though the darkness had in a moment hidden him from her sight, she had continued to stand on the spot at which he had left her.
She was slight of figure and stronger of will than physique, but she did not feel the cold.