“Is it so bad as that?” said Tuke, sitting up in his turn.
“Look for yourself, David,” repeated the soldier; “and tell me if you see one hope of escape.”
Both hearers scrambled to their feet, and one of them flung open the door. The mouth of their refuge looked westwards, so that by good fortune it was little encumbered of the driving snow; but that had drifted and piled itself over the easterly slope of the mound in such a manner as to throw an irregular outwork, varying from one yard to many in depth, all about them, and upon this fresh deposits from the bewildered sky were ceaselessly accumulating. It had fallen deep dusk through all the high thicket that encompassed their clearing; but it was yet light enough to see how the white storm—disciplining its fury as the wind dropped with night—was settled to a direct purpose of crushing under the whole resistance of life. Now the flakes fell in dense, sluggish lines upon the open ground, as if the vast weight already cast down were drawing out the very entrails of the heavens.
Blythewood levered himself up and sprang outside. The fall made of him in a moment a man of snow.
“What are we to do?” he shouted. “Good Lord! think of the house and of them two fuming for us to return! Shan’t we make a dash through the wood and try at least to get our bearin’s?”
Tuke had heard a sound, and had bent over Dennis. He came to the opening.
“The poor fellow is half-delirious, I think,” said he, “and in no state to go on. Make the effort, you, and I’ll stay here with him.”
“David,” said Luvaine, “I’m for you. Give me a hand.”
“No,” said the baronet—“not for all the little devils of Angels in the world!”
He jumped down again.