ts to flee from some
terrible danger, and to drag the heavily laden hand-sledge between two
ice-covered rocks too close together to allow it to pass.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE FIGHT FOR LIFE.

"Yes! Yes! What is it?" Somebody had spoken in the black darkness,
but it was some minutes before Dallas Adams could realise the fact that
the words came from his own lips.

Then he heard a faint whisper from somewhere close by, and he was this
time wide awake, and knew that he was answering that whisper.

"Where am I? What place is this?"

The question had come to him in his sleep, and for a few moments, so
familiar were the sounds, he felt that he must have the tubes of a
phonograph to his ears, and he listening to the thin, weird, wiry tones
of his cousin's voice.

Then, like a flash, all came back, and he knew not only that he had been
asleep, but everything that had happened some time before.

"Bel, old lad," he said huskily, and he winced with pain as he tried to
stretch out his left hand.

"Ah!" came again in the faint whisper, "That you, Dal?"

"Yes, yes. How are you now?"

"Then it isn't all a delirious dream?"

"No, no; we have been brought together almost miraculously."

"Thank God--thank God!" came feebly. "I thought I had been off my head.
Have I been asleep?"

"Yes, and I fell asleep too. My wound made me feverish, and we must
have been lying here ever so long in the dark."

"Your wound, Dal?"

"Yes; I had almost forgotten it in what we had to go through, but one of
the scoundrels shot me. It is only a scratch, but my arm seems set
fast."

"Ah! Do you think they were buried alive too?" came in an eager
whisper.

"Who can say, old fellow? But never mind that. How do you feel? Think
you can help me?"

"Tie up your wound?"

"No, no. Help me try and dig our way out."

"I think so. My head feels a bit light, but it's my throat that is
bad--all swollen up so that I can only whisper."

"Never mind your throat so long as you can use your arms."

"Think we can dig our way out?"

Dallas uttered a little laugh.

"Why not?" he said. "There is a pick and shovel on my sledge."

"Ah, yes, and on mine too."

"We were out of heart last night," continued Dallas, encouragingly, "and
in the scare thought we were done for. But we can breathe; we shall not
suffer for want of food; the melted snow will give us drink; and once we
can determine which way to dig, what is to prevent our findi