Two o’clock in the afternoon of the following day found them engaged in a terrific battle with the blizzard that ever raged up the mountain pass which they must cross.
“‘Try not the pass,
The old man said,
The storm is lowering overhead,’”
Patsy chanted bravely as, with snow encrusted head and with cheeks that must be rubbed incessantly to prevent them from freezing, she struggled forward.
A moment later, as a fiercer shock seemed about to lift her from her feet and hurl her down the mountain side, Marian heard her fairly shriek into the teeth of the gale:
“Excelsior! Excelsior!”
Many hard battles had Marian fought out on the tundra, but nothing had ever equalled this. The snow, seeming never to stop, shot past them, or in a wild whirling eddy dashed into their faces. The wind tore at them. Now it came in rude gusts, and now poured down some narrow pass with all the force of the waterfall. Only by bending low and leaping into it could they make progress.
The herd plunged stumblingly forward in a broad line. The dogs, incessantly at their heels, urged them forward. Terogloona, and even the brave Attatak, did all in their power to keep the herd moving.
“If they stop; oh, if they do!” panted Marian. “If they refuse to go on we are lost! If only we reach the summit I am sure we will be safe. It must be calm on the other side.”