“The shovel goes through quite easily here,” he said excitedly.
“Yes, and what is beyond?” shouted Dallas. “Can you see daylight?”
“No; all is black as ink. It must be a hole in the snow. We must get into it, for the air comes quite pure and fresh, and that means life and hope.”
In his excitement he struck out with the shovel twice, and had drawn it back to strike again, when there was a dull heavy crack, and he felt himself borne sidewise and carried along, with the snow rising up and covering his face.
The next minute, as he vainly strove to get higher, the movement ceased, and he felt himself locked in the embrace of the snow, while his breathing stopped.
Only for a moment, before the hardening crystal which surrounded his head dropped away, and a rush of pure air swept over him and seemed to bring back life.
Then the sliding movement entirely ceased, and he wildly shouted his cousin’s name.
His voice echoed from somewhere above, telling him that, though a prisoner, he was free down to the shoulders, though his arms were pinned.
But there was no other reply to the call, and he turned sick and faint with the knowledge that Dallas must be once more buried deep, and far below.
Around all was black darkness, and in his agony another desperate effort was made; but the snow had moulded itself around him nearly to the neck, and he could not stir a limb.