"For God's sake be moving, sir," pleaded Burnham. "Whatever happens, we must get abreast of the main gates. Then those who will may go to the Moor. We shall freeze here while we stand. For my part I return. Life is sweet."
"An' me too," said Carberry. "I'm fearsome of this weather. My lungs will fail me in a mile. 'Tain't no manner of use killing myself for nought. I wants ter see the gate again. T'other side the wall's only prison, but this side's death."
"I'se with you, Marse Burnham and Marse Carberry," chattered Cuffee. "My legs is gwine so funny, like as if dey belonged to some udder gemman."
"It's suicide, Stark," said Burnham, as they bent forward and followed the wall. The wind now shrieked past them, and the snow began to change its character. It had been very thick and heavy, and the Moor was already an inch deep under it; but the flakes ceased to fall, and dwindled into an icy dust that stabbed like a rain of needles. Darkness increased; only by the wall upon their right hands did they know their road.
"My cheek him froze hard!" cried the negro. "Oh, my poor mammy!"
Stark, with his head down, spoke to Miller.
"What do you do, sir?" he asked. "I'm going to make a fight for it; but dare you?"
"I'll come, lad, on one condition: that you do not stay a single step for me. 'Tis each for himself. My life matters to no man. And I take it into my hands with all reverence for the Giver. If I die, I die a free man."
"'Tis so with me," answered the younger; "none will mourn me, for sorrow of heirs is only laughter under a mask. But we'll win, not lose. And 'tis victory either way, whether we live or die."
There remained James Knapps, and now Stark asked him his purpose.