The snow lay thick on the ground, always deeper the higher they climbed, and there came a moment when the little girl, clinging to her kind companion, cried bitterly, declaring that she could go no farther.
In despair Eric looked around him—on all sides the awful solitude shut him in; rows on rows of giants frowned down upon his sorry plight, the wind rustled through their branches that looked like monstrous arms gesticulating in angry discussions over the heads of these two forlorn human beings. To Eric they suddenly appeared like enemies come together from all parts of the world to plan his destruction.
Each tree was a living creature threatening him, trying to stop him, to turn him back! He clenched his teeth: he would not go back! He would not give up! He would not allow fear to fill his soul! Was he not to be of those who win? Had not the hermit believed in his courage? and his silent followers had they not put all their trust in his strength?
There they stood, fantastic forms hovering on the verge of Eternity, faintly discernible against the trunks of the trees, their haunted eyes turned towards him, their transparent bodies all bending his way in hushed expectation.
The wind came down in howling gusts, stirring up the withered needles that lay on the snow, bending the proud trees before its ruthless violence, dashing powdery clouds over the trembling child; then rushing in shrieking hordes through the sombre pines so that their boughs clashed together like an angry mob. Night was coming on; all around Eric could see nothing but trees, trees—an army of Titans allied against him to hinder him reaching his goal. To add to the horror of his pitiful situation, he thought he heard from afar the howling of wolves, and that he saw creeping forms slinking amongst the thickening shadows.
Calling upon all his courage, he bent down and gathered the exhausted child into his arms, wrapping the folds of his cloak tightly round her shuddering limbs; and thus weighted he struggled on, his breath coming in gasps, his pulses beating, a mist before his eyes.
He toiled through the snow, up, up, winding his way between the trunks of the hostile trees—often stumbling—hitting his weary feet against broken twigs—straining with a feeling that his veins would burst, so great was his exertion.
But he would not give way! He would not lay down his precious burden before he could find some cover for the night! To rest there upon that bed of snow would be certain death; his weariness was such, he knew if once he fell it would be to rise no more—he would hide his head in that icy shroud dragging down the precious life with his, to never, never move again.
On—on ... but was the child of lead? Why had his arms become so weak? Why were dark vapours floating before his eyes?... Why had he a beating heart in each tingling nerve of his aching body? Why did his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth, whilst fire seemed to course down his throat? And now a great darkness suddenly wiped all things from his sight, and he fell with the impression that he was being suddenly hurled into the night....
But it was not long that he lay thus—instinct was stronger than all; besides, the warm arms of the frightened child seemed to drag him back to life, infusing new vitality into his spent frame; so he struggled to his knees, the little girl still clinging to his neck.