THE SLEEP OF DEATH
WELL it was that Ranworth's party were walking with the wind, for progress against it would have been impossible. Everything within a few yards of them was blotted out by the hissing, stinging flakes of snow. In a very short time their landmarks were completely obliterated.
Everything in the matter of direction depended upon the little spirit compass that Ranworth held protected by his fur-covered mittens.
Not once, but many times, each member of the party slipped and came to the ground. At length Guy, numbed in body and mind, stumbled and fell upon the rapidly-increasing mantle of snow. It felt comfortable, did the snow. Lying there, he formed a firm resolve to rest and overtake the others later on. He was more than half asleep. With his head pillowed on his arms, there was peace.
Just then, something prompted Leslie to turn his head. Guy was missing.
Giving a shout that attracted the attention of his companion in front of him, Leslie pointed to a dark object just visible in the slanting avalanche of sleet.
Mechanically the others stopped, while Leslie turned and made his way back to the place where Guy was lying. Every step of the distance, as he faced the stinging wind, and whirling snow, was torture; yet, bravely staggering onwards, he reached his chum's side.
"Come on, old man," he said, kneeling by Guy's side and shouting into his ear. "You mustn't stop here."
Guy's only response was a drowsy movement of his head. Leslie in despair looked for his comrades. Three white figures, for the fur clothes were plastered in drifted snow, were looming up through the blizzard.
"Is he hurt?" shouted Ranworth.