otice it. Perhaps from the
hill-top I should see her.

"Jacqueline! Jacqueline!" I screamed frantically.

No answer came. I had gained the summit now, and round me I saw the
shadowy outlines of the snow-covered rocks, but five or six feet from
me a deep, impenetrable grey wall obscured everything. I tried to peer
down into the valley, and saw nothing but the same fog there. Once
more I called.

A dog barked suddenly, not far away, and through the mist I heard the
slide of sleigh-runners on snow; and then I knew.

I scrambled down, slipping, and gashing my hands upon the rocks and
ice. At the foot of the hill I saw two straight and narrow lines on
the soft snow. They were the tracks of sleigh-runners.

I followed them, sobbing, and catching my breath, and screaming:

"Jacqueline! Jacqueline!"

Then I heard Simon's voice, and with the sound of it my dream came back
with prophetic clearness.

"_Bonjour,_ M. Hewlett!" he called mockingly. "This way! This way!"

I turned and rushed blindly in the direction of the cry. I had left my
snow-shoes behind me in the hut, and at each step my feet broke through
the crusted snow, so that I floundered and fell like a drunken man to
choruses of taunts and laughter.

It was a horrible blindman's bluff, for they had surrounded me, yelling
from every quarter.

"This way, _monsieur_! This way!" piped a thin, voice which I knew to
be Philippe Lacroix.

A snowball struck me on the chin, and they began pelting me and
laughing. I was like a baited bear. I was beside myself with rage and
helpless fury. The icy balls hit my face a dozen times; one struck me
behind the ear and hurled me down half stunned.

I was up again and rushing at my unseen tormentors. I heard the
barking of the dogs far away, and I ran in the direction of the sound,
sobbing with rage. I pulled my pistols from my pockets and spun round,
firing in every direction through that wall of grey, yielding mist that
gave me place but never gave me vision.

The clouds had obscured the sky and the snow was falling again. My
hands were bare and numb, except where the cold steel of the pistol
triggers seared my fingers like molten metal.

They had formed a wider circle round me, and pistol range is longer
than snowball range, so that they struck me no more. I heard the
shouts and mockery still, but never Jacqueline's voice.

"Here, M. Hewlett, here!" piped Philippe Lacroix once more.

Again I turne