“It’s worse here,” declared Jean, “I think”—with a nervous laugh—“I think I’d rather die in the open!”
“It might be preferable. Only you’re not going to die at all, if I can help it,” the Englishman returned composedly.
But, cool though he appeared, he experienced a thrill of keen anxiety as they emerged from the pine-wood and his quick eyes scanned the dangerously rapid drifting of the snow.
The wind was racing down the valley now, driving the snow before it and piling it up, inch by inch, foot by foot, against the steep ground which skirted the sheet of ice where they had been skating but a few hours before.
Through the pitiless beating of the snow Jean strove to read her companion’s face. It was grim and set, the lean jaw thrust out a little and the grey eyes tense and concentrated.
“Can we get through?” she asked, raising her voice so that it might carry against the wind.
“If we can get through the drifted snow between here and the track on the left, we’re all right,” answered the man.
“The wind’s slanting across the valley and there’ll be no drifts on the further side. I wish I’d got a bit of rope with me.”
He felt in his pockets, finally producing the rolled-up strap of a suit-case.
“That’s all I have,” he said discontentedly.