A gust of wind rushed down from the mountains, and in a minute the air was full of fine drift which stung the faces of men and horses like needles. The ponies whirled round and it was only by the utmost efforts of the rider and his attendant that they were forced to go on.
The landscape was now almost entirely lost to view. All Fred took note of was the snowy mane of his pony and the bowed back of the guide, urging the pack-horse up the path, which had of late grown much rougher and steeper. Hour after hour passed. Fred, buffeted by the blast and half-frozen as he crouched on the saddle, suddenly realised that it was growing darker. Night was falling. The new snow was now over the horses' fetlocks, and in places the drifts were nearly to the stirrups.
"Where are we, Kanuka?"
"Not far from Yalu. See—good house ahead!"
Fred wiped the frozen snow from his eyelashes and peered over the horse's head. Sure enough, there was the welcome sight of a light, gleaming hospitably through the gathering darkness.
"Good!" he ejaculated with stiff lips, under his icy moustache. "I thought we should find somebody living on this old Feng-Weng turnpike."
"This Yalu road," said the guide.
"What, have we left the main trail?"
"Two hours ago. No good to keep same road. All go sleep there—no wake up." The man had to shout to make himself heard above the roar of the storm.