Tuke scrambled up and out into the open.
“Sport in this weather?” he muttered, staring at his friend.
“Sounds queer, don’t it? and yet, what else can it be?”
The other did not answer; but his eyes retained a sort of startled
musing.
“Well,” he said at last, “I must try _my_ fortunes.”
“We had best all go together.”
“No, indeed, my friend. Think of the tax it would be upon Captain
Luvaine’s critical perceptives.”
“You are so very witty,” said the soldier dryly. “You put the words in
my mouth.”
“I have had to swallow some of yours, sir. ’Tis just an exchange of
courtesies.”
“Oh!” cried Blythewood--“the deuce of this sparring! I refuse to hold
the stakes any longer.”
“Who asked you to, you rogue. You’re getting conceited.”
“Where are you going to?”
“I have a plan to push out by the tumbled lodge, if I can win there,
and see if the drive is passable. It should be.”
“Well--why shouldn’t we all go?”
“If you move, so do I not. Then see if you can find the way by
yourself. No, no--stay where you are. In half-an-hour I will be back
as full of information as a verger.”
He waved his hand, and ran off, as he could, across the snow. He was
stiff and numb with cold; his lips were cracked with it--his fingers
felt and looked like ingots of blue steel. There was such a piercing
rigour in the air as converted his very breath into frost upon his
face.
He thought he remembered the little alley by way of which he had once
emerged from the clearing; but to reach it, it was necessary to
struggle through a drift nine or ten feet high. He did not hesitate,
however; he went into it as if he were diving under a breaker, seeking
to bore a hole by the mere force of his onset. And in this process he
came near to smothering himself at a swoop; for the arch of snow
formed above him broke down as he kicked his way on, and, dragging
tributary avalanches with it, completely overwhelmed and
half-suffocated him. Now he had to gnaw his way, as it were, through
the thick base of the drift, and this he felt he should never have
breath or vigour for; for the first was already coming in tight gasps,
and the second was futile to express itself in anything but a series
of aimless and spasmodic jerks. Suddenly it occurred to him that he
would stand up. He put all the weight of his back into a mighty
heave--felt the superincumbent mass break and part, and his face, like
a purple bulb, sprouted from the surface and he could breathe again.
Still buried to the neck in the drift, he drew in air and cogitated.
The collapse of his tunnel had sunk a shallow groove of uncompact snow
to his front; and presently flapping and floundering, he was able by
slow degrees to force a cutting through the heap, and to come out on
the other side amongst the trees, horribly draggled and exhausted, but
triumphant.
Here, where he now found himself, the thick interlacing of the
branches overhead had made a roof to the under-earth, so that the fall
had penetrated only occasionally in any considerable quantity, and he
was able to continue his way without much difficulty. But all about
him a chill inhuman twilight reigned; for the roof itself was a loaded
canopy, and many of its high girders were already snapped beneath the
pressure.
Going cautiously, he came all at once into the little track he sought,
and, speeding along it, emerged upon light and heaped snow once more,
and the rear of the tangled garden. This, now, was a mere shapeless
confusion of wadded white, and the ruin itself--
The onlooker started where he stood and gave a low whistle. What
strange company was lodged in this deserted spot, that smoke should be
rising from two of its broken chimneys? The next moment he
thought--Could it be possible that Darda was trapped and imprisoned by
the fall in her gruesome museum? He uttered an exclamation, waded from
his covert, and with some difficulty gained the back entrance to the
building. Here, through a chink--for the door stood ajar--a fine smell
of stewing meat, that was mightily grateful to his nostrils, was
wafted to him. He paused an instant in indecision, then conscious of a
little squirm of fear, he rated himself for a coward, kicked off the
snow that clogged his heels, pushed at the panels, and entering, came
to a stop in the passage beyond. All was quiet as the grave--nothing
but the pleasant humming sound of a fire burning in its grate hard by.
Not condescending to so much as step softly, he strode down the
familiar passage, and came to where the doors of the two sitting-rooms
met him on either hand.
“Who’s here?” he cried, striving to read the gloom, for, from whatever
cause, the place was dark as a well.
With the words on his lips, he was aware of a sound--suppressed
laughter--a little scuffle. Not knowing whither to turn, he struck out
blindly anywhere on the instant--recoiled, and in a moment his arms
were caught in vicious hands, and there came a great noise of feet and
voices all about him. Feeling the utter futility of effort for the
time being, he submitted to his unseen captors.
“Light!” cried a little thin voice.
The front door was unbolted and flung open, and a weak radiance of
sunshine broke into the passage. Then all around him Tuke saw a
nightmare of jeering faces (one even looked through a great gap in the
ceiling above his head), and a babble of hoarse laughter rattled the
very ribs of the crazy tenement.