He halted for a moment.
“Look down!” he said. “Think you could travel in that?”
The snow was up to his knees, above them whenever the ground hollowed suddenly.
“But you?” she protested unhappily. “You’ll—you’ll simply kill yourself!”
“Small loss if I do! But as that would hardly help you out of your difficulties, I’ve no intention of giving up the ghost just at present.”
He started on again, pressing forward slowly and determinedly, but it was only with great difficulty and exertion that he was able to make headway. Jean, her cheek against the rough tweed of his coat, could hear the labouring beats of his heart as the depth of the snow increased.
“How much further?” she whispered.
“Not far,” he answered briefly, husbanding his breath.
A few more steps. They were both silent now. Jean’s eyes sought his face. It was ashen, and even in that bitter cold beads of sweat were running down it; he was nearing the end of his tether. She could bear it no longer. She stirred restlessly in his arms.
“Put me down,” she cried imploringly. “Please put me down.”