Spoiler : "In the year of 1864, in the December of that year to be more exact, James Murray, Barrister-at-Law, did a lot of grouse shooting. During the last few days of the season he made several trips across the northern moors, after the elusive and soon-to-be-prohibited birds. December, the wind was due east; the moors were bleak and wild. On his last expedition, the very day before the ending of the season, James Murray became hopelessly lost. The first feathery flakes of the coming snow storm fluttered down upon the heather and a leaden evening was closing in all around. The purple moorland melted into a range of low hills. There was not the faintest smoke-wreath. Not the smallest cultivated patch, or fence, or sheep-track. The world had changed. Become hostile. Alien. Murray shouldered his gun and pushed wearily forward on and beyond... Midnight."