They did not mark it, but the moment it rattled and shaled off against the frames of their shoes their trained ears telegraphed the danger. Instinctively both made a violent half-turn in mid-stride, but the movement was not enough to carry them clear. It served only to jerk them against each other, and together they sank to their shoulders through the scum ice.
The Klokhok’s waters were as cold as the vault of death.
For an instant the contact paralyzed the two. Then their arms fell like flails upon the rotten shell about them. For yards they broke their way to shore and pulled themselves like leaden-footed divers up the bank.
A clump of blasted spruce stood on the shore, and, struggling against the clog of their garments which were setting as hard as armor, they madly tore down armfuls of the boughs.
“Jose, the matches!” gasped Blera, dropping on her knees beside the pile. “Give them to me. I’ll light it. You pile on more. Don’t stop piling!”
Jose snatched up the stiff, crackling front of his parka and dabbed his numbing fingers into the pocket of his vest where he kept his matches in a little bottle tightly corked, the best waterproof match-safe the Northman knows.
Even as he jabbed his fingers in he uttered a cry of pain and jerked them out again.
The ends showed all bloody and studded with bits of broken glass.
Tailor swept Cantine’s swarthy face till he looked like a statue in bronze as he stood staring stupidly at his finger-ends and watching the hot blood freeze.
“Jose! Jose!”