“Surely not! You came back and pulled me out. You still mean to save my life, evidently.”
“Oh, that! Yes, I’ll save your life”—and she snatched her hand away.
Vane followed again. His heart didn’t feel so high now. In fact, it felt far worse than his knees and shoulders and ribs. He thought back and wondered at his dear companion of the hut as if at some beautiful experience of his childhood. He made one hundred yards, two hundred, two-fifty, before striking another drift. He struggled with the drift in a desperate silence. He got halfway through. She turned and came back to him.
“I’m all right,” he said. “With you in two ticks.”
She searched for his hands, but his were not extended in response. She came closer and pulled at his shoulders.
“I can manage it, thanks all the same,” he said.
“But you know you can’t!” she cried.
He squirmed free of her hands and clear of the drift, leaving her behind him. But her tracks were still in front for a distance of twenty yards or more; so he plowed his way onward without a backward glance. She ran past him and again led the way. He followed—but he fell at last, all in. He felt her arms, her hands. She was trying to raise him from the smothering snow. He pulled himself to his knees.
“I can do it—thanks,” he said. “I must rest—a minute.”
He didn’t look at her.