"But I don't think we'd better try to. It's getting cold. Every hour it's colder, and I seem to be getting weaker. It isn't a real wound, Linda—but it seems to have knocked some of my vitality out of me, and I'm dreadfully in need of rest. I think we'd better try to make a camp."
"And go on by morning light?"
"Yes."
"But Simon might overtake us then."
"We must stay out of sight of the trail. But somehow—I can't help but hope he won't try to follow us on such a night as this."
He drew up the horse, and they sat in the beat of the snow. "Don't make any mistake about that, Bruce," she told him. "Remember, that unless he overtakes us before we come into the protection of the courts, his whole fight is lost. It doesn't alone mean loss of the estate—for which he would risk his life just as he has a dozen times. It means defeat—a thing that would come hard to Simon. Besides, he's got a fire within him that will keep him warm."
"You mean—hatred?"
"Hatred. Nothing else."
"But in spite of it we must make camp. We'll get off the trail—if we're still on it—and try to slip through to-morrow. You see what's going to happen if we keep on going this way?"
"I know that I feel a queer dread—and hopelessness—"