His eyes ranged the horizon, where the rugged line of white indented the sky. A spot of blue appeared in the pale vault, and a ray of sunlight trickled through.
"Look!" cried Marco again, stretching out his hand this time to the north. "There is something moving on the snow."
The old man gazed northward, rubbed his eyes, shook his head.
"Can you see anything, Nuta?" he asked.
"Dark specks, miles and miles away--yes, Father, they are moving. There are more of them. They are like ants."
"The Bulgars!" muttered the old man. "Come, we must haste."
Returning to the cart, he whipped up the oxen, and the patient beasts, heaving their load out of the drift into which its wheels had settled, hauled it, creaking and groaning, towards the brightening south.
II
Meanwhile, in a broad gully not far away, a different scene was being enacted.
Across the gully lay the tangled ruins of a biplane. From the midst of the wreckage crawled a long figure, in the overalls, helmet, and goggles of a member of the Flying Corps. His goggles had been partially displaced, and lay askew upon his nose. There were spots of blood, already frozen, upon his cheek. His movements were slow and painful, and when, having emerged from the shapeless mass of metal and canvas, he tried to stand erect, he reeled, saved himself from falling by an effort, and dropping upon an adjacent rock, rubbed his eyes, groaned, and sat as one dazed.