“The snow was soft, and for the dogs, as for myself, the work was too severe to last; but my aim was, if possible, to settle with the first ruffian (who had, it seemed likely, undertaken to head us off) before the second could overtake and join forces with him.
“But suddenly, with a whistle and a biting blast, the storm was upon us. For a moment the dogs cowered down in their tracks, and then we were fain to hug the shore for shelter.
“The shelter was not much, for the storm seemed to rage from all quarters; yet, breathless and blinded though we were, we were able to make some headway. At a momentary lull between the gusts we rounded a sharp headland, and entered a long, narrow passage between the shore and a wooded island.
“‘A likely place enough for the murderin’ thief!’ exclaimed Mike.
“But we plunged ahead.
“The words had scarcely left his mouth when the snow seemed to rise thinly about us in a thousand spirals and swirls. A tremendous wind drove down the channel and smote us in the face, with a long, confused, yelping howl, which made my flesh creep with its resemblance to a cry of dogs. Our team trembled terribly and lay down.
“‘The gray dogs!’ came in a hoarse cry from Mike’s lips.
“And at the same moment there swept past us, in the heart of the whirlwind, a pack of wild, huddling, and leaping drifts, followed by a tall, bent, woman-like figure of snow-cloud, which seemed to stoop over and urge on their furious flight.
“The vision vanished, the shrill clamor died away over the open reaches of the lake, and shaking off my tremor, I cheered our dogs again to the road.
“But as for Mike, he was overwhelmed with horror. He would admit no doubt but that one of us must die before nightfall. And for my own part, I felt that our circumstances lent only too ugly a color to his fancy.