"I think I ought to tell you something else. I haven't the least way of knowing whether we are on the right trail."
"I knew that long ago. Whether we are on any trail at all."
"I've just been thinking. I don't know how many forks it has. We might have already got on a wrong one. Perhaps the horse is turned about and is heading back home—toward Simon's stables."
She spoke dully, and he thrust his arm back to her. "Linda, try to be brave," he urged. "We can only take a chance."
The horse plodded a few more steps. "Brave! To think that it is you that has to encourage me—instead of my trying to keep up your spirits. I will try to be brave, Bruce. And if we don't live through the night, my last remembrance will be of your bravery—how you, injured and weak from loss of blood, still remembered to give a cheery word to me."
"I'm not badly injured," he told her gently. "And there are certain things that have come clear to me lately. One of them is that except for you—throwing your own precious body between—I wouldn't be here at all."
The feeling that they had lost the trail grew upon them. More than once the stirrup struck the bark of a tree and often the thickets gave way beneath them. Once they halted to adjust the blankets on the saddle, and they listened for any sounds that might indicate that Simon was overtaking them. But all they heard was the soft rustle of the leaves under the wind-blown snow.
"Linda," he asked suddenly. "Does it seem to you to be awfully cold?"
She waited a long time before she spoke. This was not the hour to make quick answers. On any decision might rest their success or failure.
"I believe I can stand it—awhile longer," she answered at last.