sky, and the white wilderness was very still
and the frost intense when they floundered into the gloom of the bluff at
the hour that man's vitality sinks to its lowest. Every crackle of a
brittle branch rang with horrible distinctness, and now and then a man
turned in his saddle and glanced at his neighbour when from the shadowy
hollow beneath them rose the sound of rending ice. The stream ran fast
just there, and there had been but a few days' frost.

They rode at a venture, looking about them with strained intentness, for
they had left the guiding trail behind them now. Suddenly a faint cry came
out of the silence followed by a beat of hoofs that grew louder every
second, until it seemed to swell into a roar. Either there was clearer
ground in the bluff, or the rider took his chances blindly so long as he
made haste.

The men spread out at a low command, and Breckenridge smiled mirthlessly
as he remembered the restrained eagerness with which he had waited outside
English covers when the quarry was a fox. He could feel his heart thumping
furiously, and his mittened hands would tremble on the bridle. It seemed
that the fugitive kept them waiting a horribly long while.

Then, there was a shout close by him, Grant's horse shot forward and he
saw a shadowy object flash by amidst the trees. Hand and heel moved
together, and the former grew steady again as he felt the spring of the
beast under him and the bitter draught upon his cheek. His horse had
rested, and the fugitive's was spent. Where he was going he scarcely
noticed, save that it was down hill, for the birches seemed flying up to
him, and the beast stumbled now and then. He was only sure that he was
closing with the flying form in front of him.

The trees grew blurred together; he had to lean forward to evade the
thrashing branches. His horse was blundering horribly, the slope grew
steeper still, the ground beneath the dusty snow and fallen leaves was
granite hard; but he was scarcely a length away, a few paces more would
bring him level, and his right hand was stretched out for a grip of the
stranger's bridle.

A hoarse shout came ringing after him, and Breckenridge fancied it was a
warning. The river was close in front and only thinly frozen yet, but he
drove his heels home again. If the fugitive could risk the passage of the
ice, he could risk it, too. There was another sound that jarred across the
hammering of the hoofs, a crash, and Breckenridge was alone,