Dumois smiled at him derisively, and the other said no more.
They travelled on hour after hour; no one spoke, saving breath for the swift pace. Dumois stopped and examined the heavens again; the stars were not to be seen, and a chill wind was blowing. He swung off a little to the left; the others made no comments, because they could not now, and the three went on and on, now through dense forests as dark as pitch, where they had to slow down and feel their way, and again across gray-white barrens where the wind tossed the drift into whirling clouds and carried it along in its arms.
They came suddenly to a deep gorge. Dumois stopped, and looked at it with growing fear in his eyes.
“Dere no ravine near to Rivière Noire,” he muttered to himself; then he turned to the others, who stood waiting behind him. “Ah’m los’,” he said quietly.
“Ve go back,” suggested Le Bossu.
In silence the three turned the dogs on the back trail.
It had begun to snow, a little at first, then faster and faster; the flakes whirled and tumbled over one another in their long race to the earth. It fell cold and clammy on the men’s faces as they breasted their way against the wind, and they wound their mufflers close up to their eyes. A big hill loomed in front of them, like some black monster; they had fought their way for two hours against the storm and were tired out.
“Vat dat?” said Dumois in a helpless way.
No one answered.
“Ve bes’ res’ here de nuit,” finally suggested Le Hibou, in a dull voice.