—Beowulf The man called Shelk walked slowly up the path which only three men were allowed to tread. His head was bent, his hands behind him. His mood was in keeping with the day, for a great wind soughed in the pines and spatters of rain fell from time to time. He was keeping a tryst; one which he had kept, without fulfillment, for as many days as he had fingers on both hands. He was well dressed, in clothes of caribou skin and a close-fitting cap of wolverine fur; his boots were waterproof sealskin. His dark beard, already turning grey at the roots, hung down over his chest. His eyes were fixed on the ground in front of him. Shaded by a heavy brow, they formed the most impressive feature of his brown, weatherbeaten face with its broad, high-bridged nose. He reached the little hut on the crest of the hill and stopped outside for a moment to look around. The hill commanded a great view of the lands to the north, where endless vistas of forest faded into the distance, obscured by sheets of rain.
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