She laid hold of a corner that appeared to project more than any other portion of the rock, and pulled with all her strength.
The stone remained immovable. Of what avail were her weak little hands?
“I can not stir it,” she said. “It is as firmly fixed as masonry. I am not strong enough.”
When the dog saw that she was trying to remove the bowlder, he recommenced scratching at the dirt at its base, giving utterance ever and anon to quick, glad yelps.
She tried once more; but her second efforts were as unavailing as her first.
“It is no use,” she said, half to herself and half to the blood-hound. “I can not stir it. But what does it mean? In what manner does it cover the trail? It does, somehow; or Death would surely pick it up and follow on. What a fearful storm! I never saw one like it before. How the sleet cuts my face and hands!”
And she shrunk back into her old shelter.
The dog kept his place before the bowlder, from which he never removed his eyes till his quick ear caught a strange sound, which even Vinnie heard plainly above the roar of the storm.
Following the direction of the brute’s gaze, the girl saw a sudden and unexpected sight.
Some one was approaching on a white horse.