The mass of the landslide toppled right above them. She did not seem to see. "I'm so happy, Pierre. I was never so happy." And he said, with his eyes on the approaching ruin: "It was your singing that brought me to you. Will you sing again?" "I sang because I knew that when I sang the sound would carry farther through the wind than if I called for help. What shall I sing for you now, Pierre?" "What you sang when I came to you." And the light, sweet voice rose easily through the sweep of the wind. She smiled as she sang, and the smile and music were all for Pierre, he knew. Through the last stanza of the song the rumble of the approaching death grew louder, and as she ended he threw himself beside her and gathered her into protecting arms. She cried: "Pierre! What is it?" "I must keep you warm; the snow will eat away your strength." "No; it's more than that. Tell me, Pierre! You don't trust the power of the cross?" "Are you afraid?" "Oh, no; I'm not afraid, Pierre." "If one life would be enough, I'd give mine a thousand times. Mary, we are to die." An arm slipped around his neck--a cold hand pressed against his cheek. "Pierre." "Yes." The thunder broke above them with a mighty roaring. "_You_ have no fear." "Mary, if I had died alone I would have dropped down to hell under my sins; but, with your arm around me, you'll take me with you. Hold me close." "With all my heart, Pierre. See--I'm not afraid. It is like going to sleep. What wonderful dreams we'll have!" And then the black mass of the landslide swept upon them. CHAPTER 9 Down all the length of the mountain-desert and across its width of rocks and mountains and valleys and stern plateaus there is a saying: "You can tell a man by the horse he rides." For most other important things are apt to go by opposites, which is the usual way in which a man selects his wife. With dogs, for instance--a quiet man is apt to want an active dog, and a tractable fellow may keep the most vicious of wolf-dogs. But when it comes to a horse, a man's heart speaks for itself, and if he has sufficient knowledge he will choose a sympathetic mount. A woman loves a neat-stepping saddle-horse; a philosopher likes a nodding, stumble-footed nag which will jog all day long and care not a whit whether it goes up dale or down. To know the six wild riders who galloped over the white reaches of the mountain-desert this night, certainly their horses should be studied first and the men secondly, for the one explained the other. They came in a racing triangle. Even the storm at its height could not daunt such furious riders. At the point of the triangle thundered a mighty black stallion, his muzzle and his broad chest flecked with white foam, for he stretched his head out and champed at the bit with ears laid flat back, as though even that furious pace gave him no opportunity to use fully his strength.