Mr. Morton endeavoured to mount his horse again, but in vain. Frightened by his fall and the bewildering snow the animal jumped about and would not stand still, whilst the pain his master's foot gave him when he stood upon it crippled all his efforts.
Letting go Blackie's bridle—the pony would not stir without him—Cyril held his father's horse, patted his neck, and endeavoured to pacify him, but in vain.
It grew darker; the snow rose in great drifts now, and flung itself upon them with stinging force.
Mr. Morton struggled hard against the faintness and drowsiness which was stealing over him. "My boy," he said, "it is no use. I cannot ride. The horse would only fall again."
"But, father, what shall we do?" cried Cyril. "I've heard of people in this country being buried in the snow whilst yet alive, and of their being starved to death too."
"If only there were some shelter!" sighed his father, "a hollow tree, or a cave, or something. Look round, Cyril, can't you see anything?"
Cyril endeavoured to look through the snow, but could see nothing except snow—snow in all directions, whirling about, drifting high, covering the trees till it made them look gigantic cloud-like mountains, and piling itself up against them as they stood until it really seemed to be trying to bury them all alive.
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle! The sound of sleigh bells, proceeding slowly in their direction, was the most welcome music to their ears that they had ever heard.
"Thank God!" exclaimed Mr. Morton, making a renewed effort to resist the faintness stealing over him, "thank God!"
"Oh, father, it's a sleigh! I know the sound of sleigh bells!" exclaimed Cyril, "and there will be people, and they will take us somewhere!" In his glad excitement he let go of the bridle he was holding, upon which the horse immediately turned tail and bolted, floundering through the snow.