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.