She stopped short again. If she could see a light she would make for it, she thought, and take refuge from the night and storm. But through the white whirl no light was to be seen. Right or wrong, nothing remained but to go on.
Hark! what was that? She stopped once more—the Don pricked up his sagacious ears. A cry unmistakably—a cry of distress.
Again it came, to the left, faint and far off. Yes—no doubt about it, a cry for help.
She did not hesitate a moment. Strangers, who had tried this hillpath before now, had been found stark frozen next day.
"Find him, Don—find him, good fellow!" she said and turned at once in the direction of the call.
"Coming!" she shouted, aloud. "Where are you? Call again."
"Here," came faintly over the snow. "Here, to the left."
She shouted back a cheery answer. Once more came a faint reply—then all was still.
Suddenly the Don stopped. Impossible to tell where they were, but there, prostrate in a feathery drift, lay the dark figure of a man. The girl bent down in the darkness, and touched the cold face with her hand.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "How do you come to be lying here?"