She was cold herself, chilled to the
very heart; her misery of body and soul were extreme. The dim light and
the ceaseless roar of the storm oppressed her. The very scent of the
brandy seemed to intoxicate her, and steal away her resolution. If she
took but a very little of it, she reasoned with herself, she would be
better fitted for the long, exhausting task of watching her husband. How
would she have strength to stand over him through the cold, dark hours
of the night, feeble and worn out as she already felt herself? For his
sake, then, she must taste it; she would take but a very little. The
captain had said there was not more than enough; but surely he would
give her more, to save her husband's life. Only a little, just to stay
the intolerable craving.
Sophy poured out a small, portion into the little horn belonging to the
flask. The strong spirituous scent excited her. How warm, and strong,
and useful it would make her to her husband in his extremity! Yet still
she hesitated. Suppose she could not resist the temptation to take more,
and yet more, until she lost her consciousness, and left him to perish
with cold and faintness? She knew how often she had resolved to take but
a taste, enough to drive away the painful dejection of the passing hour;
and how fatally her resolution had failed her, when once she had
yielded.
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