They staggered and stumbled on, not now with any hope of extricating themselves from the fatal mountain, but merely to keep the blood alive in their veins. And, when they were exhausted, they sat down, and soon were heaps of snow.
While they sat thus, side by side, thinking no more of love, or any other thing but this: should they ever see the sun rise, or sit by a fireside again? suddenly they heard a sound in the air behind them, and, in a moment, what seemed a pack of hounds in full cry passed close over their heads.
They uttered a loud cry.
“We are saved!” cried Grace. “Mr. Raby is hunting us with his dogs. That was the echo.”
Coventry groaned. “What scent would lie?” said he. “Those hounds were in the air; a hundred strong.”
Neither spoke for a moment, and then it was Grace who broke the terrible silence.
“THE GABRIEL HOUNDS!”
“The Gabriel hounds; that run before calamity! Mr. Coventry, there's nothing to be done now, but to make our peace with God. For you are a dead man, and I'm a dead woman. My poor papa! poor Mr. Little!”
She kneeled down on the snow, and prayed patiently, and prepared to deliver up her innocent soul to Him who gave it.
Not so her companion. He writhed away from death. He groaned, he sighed, he cursed, he complained. What was Raby thinking of, to let them perish?