He went stealthily about the place, seeking here and there for something; now and then halting to listen, now and then jerking his head around and casting a quick glance toward the bed; and always muttering, always mumbling to himself.

At last he found what he seemed to want--a rusty old butcher knife and a whetstone.

Then he crept to his place by the fire, sat himself down, and began to whet the knife softly on the stone, still muttering, mumbling, ejaculating.

The winds sighed around the lonely place, the mysterious voices of the night floated by out of the distances.

The shining eyes of venturesome mice and rats peered out at the old man from cracks and coverts, but he went on with his work, rapt, absorbed, and noted none of these things.
At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife, and nodded his head with satisfaction.