“I have had to swallow some of yours, sir. ’Tis just an exchange of courtesies.”
“Oh!” cried Blythewood—“the deuce of this sparring! I refuse to hold the stakes any longer.”
“Who asked you to, you rogue. You’re getting conceited.”
“Where are you going to?”
“I have a plan to push out by the tumbled lodge, if I can win there, and see if the drive is passable. It should be.”
“Well—why shouldn’t we all go?”
“If you move, so do I not. Then see if you can find the way by yourself. No, no—stay where you are. In half-an-hour I will be back as full of information as a verger.”
He waved his hand, and ran off, as he could, across the snow. He was stiff and numb with cold; his lips were cracked with it—his fingers felt and looked like ingots of blue steel. There was such a piercing rigour in the air as converted his very breath into frost upon his face.
He thought he remembered the little alley by way of which he had once emerged from the clearing; but to reach it, it was necessary to struggle through a drift nine or ten feet high. He did not hesitate, however; he went into it as if he were diving under a breaker, seeking to bore a hole by the mere force of his onset. And in this process he came near to smothering himself at a swoop; for the arch of snow formed above him broke down as he kicked his way on, and, dragging tributary avalanches with it, completely overwhelmed and half-suffocated him. Now he had to gnaw his way, as it were, through the thick base of the drift, and this he felt he should never have breath or vigour for; for the first was already coming in tight gasps, and the second was futile to express itself in anything but a series of aimless and spasmodic jerks. Suddenly it occurred to him that he would stand up. He put all the weight of his back into a mighty heave—felt the superincumbent mass break and part, and his face, like a purple bulb, sprouted from the surface and he could breathe again. Still buried to the neck in the drift, he drew in air and cogitated. The collapse of his tunnel had sunk a shallow groove of uncompact snow to his front; and presently flapping and floundering, he was able by slow degrees to force a cutting through the heap, and to come out on the other side amongst the trees, horribly draggled and exhausted, but triumphant.
Here, where he now found himself, the thick interlacing of the branches overhead had made a roof to the under-earth, so that the fall had penetrated only occasionally in any considerable quantity, and he was able to continue his way without much difficulty. But all about him a chill inhuman twilight reigned; for the roof itself was a loaded canopy, and many of its high girders were already snapped beneath the pressure.