She was still a Welse; a struggler and a fighter.

The years of her culture had not weakened her.

Though tasting of the fruits of the first remove from the soil, she was not afraid of the soil; she could return to it gleefully and naturally.
So he mused till the boat drove in, ice-rimed and battered, against the edge of the rim-ice.

The one white man aboard sprang: out, painter in hand, to slow it down and work into the channel.

But the rim-ice was formed of the night, and the front of it shelved off with him into the current.