Chapter 8
The girl tossed up her arms in a silent greeting, and Pierre
caught the small cold hands and saw that she was only a child of
twelve or fourteen trapped by the wild storm sweeping over them. He
crouched lower still, and when he did so the strength of the wind
against his face decreased wonderfully, for the sharp angle of the
hill's declivity protected them. Seeing him kneel there, she cried
out with a little wail: "Help me—the tree—help me!" And, bursting
into a passion of sobbing, she tugged her hands from his and
covered her face.
Pierre placed his shoulder under the trunk and lifted till the
muscles of his back snapped and cracked. He could not budge the
weight; he could not even send a tremor through the mass of wood.
He dropped back beside her with a groan. He f
