"An hour ago."
"Where?"
"A league from here."
The arched brow of Ursus knitted and took that pointed shape which characterizes emotion on the brow of a philosopher.
"Dead! Lucky for her! We must leave her in the snow. She is well off there. In which direction?"
"In the direction of the sea."
"Did you cross the bridge?"
"Yes."
Ursus opened the window at the back and examined the view.
The weather had not improved. The snow was falling thickly and mournfully.