Mr. Morton and Cyril rode on briskly, Blackie keeping up most cleverly with the larger horse, until when they were about eight miles on their way the snow which Ben Davidson had prognosticated began to fall heavily and in the most bewildering manner.
"I never saw such snow in my life!" exclaimed Mr. Morton. "It does not come down straight, it whirls all about and rises again and beats upon one in such a blinding fashion. Stay near me, Cyril, my boy. Can you keep your pony up?"
"Yes, father. He stumbles rather, but he won't fall. He's such a good pony, isn't he, father?"
"Splendid! And you're a capital rider!"
They pushed on as rapidly as possible, but it soon became exceedingly difficult for their horses to advance. The newly fallen snow was so much softer than the hard iced snow covering the track, it rolled into balls under the horse's hoofs, making them stumble and flounder sadly. At last Mr. Morton's horse fell down, slightly crushing his foot, which he had not time to release from the stirrup. He turned very white with the pain, and it was a few moments before he could extricate himself from the horse. Cyril was in an agony of apprehension.
"Oh, father, are you hurt?" he cried. Then, as Mr. Morton made no reply, he jumped off his pony and caught hold of him by the arm.
"I shall be all right soon," his father replied with an effort, leaning heavily on him. "My foot is sprained, I think. It rather pains me, that's all." But he grew pale to the lips.
His horse stood by, hanging his head and looking quite ashamed.
"My Blackie wouldn't have done that!" cried Cyril, and as if the pony understood him he came poking his nose into his master's hands.
All the time the snow was falling fast, whirling round, and beating in their faces. It had covered the track now, so that except for the opening in the trees they could not tell where it was.