And still he struggled on. Oh, the weariness and the weight! the weariness of dragging his limbs out of the deepening snows, the weight of the aching limbs as he plunged them into fresh wreaths and took the soundings of new depths.
Is he in the right path? He looks round, but he is growing dizzy: his eyes must be dazzled by the moonshine on the glittering snows: it is sickening, that changeless glare. He wishes the moon would go behind the cloud to relieve his giddy brain for one brief space, only that would leave him in darkness.
On, then he must go. He should be beside the beck by this time, Scarf Beck, Bella's beloved stream. Ah, that thought rouses him from his sleepy languor. He listens: he catches a muffled sound—how unlike its usual living gladness; how thick its voice compared with its wonted clear cadences, or with its loud tumultuous brawl when once it is angry. It must be half choked with snows and dulled with intruding ice. Ah, the weariness and the weight! He must rest, must sleep away his sickening giddiness, just for a little moment, before he struggles and labors onward. He is reeling, rambling towards that smooth bed, that soft pillow, those fringed curtains, those white and winding sheets. Stay, Miles, it is the cold white bed of death.
Now Chance, this is thy moment. Thou hast been laboring on after thy unconscious master without a word to encourage thee, without a sign to teach thee thy duty: thou hast dragged thy weary way a few yards behind him, not daring to show thy self for fear of being driven back as usual, Now, then, at last, thy time come. The noble dog plunges forward, all tired as he is, and jumps to lick his failing master's hand.
"What is it? Chance, my poor, poor fellow, art thou come to help thy master? Thanks, thanks, Chance," murmured he in a dull, dreary voice. But the kind tone, the evident acceptance of his poor presence, the hand laid upon his great black head, all this was payment enough, and over payment to old Chance, and he is happy.
Encouraged by his dog's companionship, Miles struggles on a few yards further. But his spasmodic efforts cannot hold out much longer. Once more, he reels, staggers, sinks into a deep drift. And there we leave him to sleep out his leaden sleep, which that melancholy bark of the old dog, and that most piteous whining have no power to awaken.
[CHAPTER IV.]
THE SEARCH.
"Take we heed to all our foot-prints;
Tell-tales are they, where we go.
Let them bear no evil witness
On the sand, or on the snow;
On the mould, or on the clay,
Or life's dusty, thronged highway."
THE family at The Yews are sleeping rather longer than usual on the morning at which we are now arrived. Sleep had been a late guest at the pillows of several of the household, for anxious thoughts had kept the earlier watches of the night with them, "holding their eyes waking." At last Mat was up, and out with Geordie and the farm lads, looking after the sheep. Laddie was at hand in readiness to help; but Chance failed to obey the whistle which generally brought him in a moment, eager for his work.