“It’s nae canny wark to do,” muttered one of the shapes nearest to him. “But it’s a grewsome matter to let them dee that wa,” urged a second. “Weel, weel, they’re nae the farst. The country side is as fu’ o corpses as a crow’s gizzard o’ oats,” admonished a third. Leacraft had been listening. He felt sure that the sounds proceeded from somewhere on George street, a little to the eastward of its intersection with Hanover. He suspected that the fugitives had taken refuge in St. Andrew’s Church. He turned to look at the muffled forms about him. “If two of you will help me, with snow-shoes we can reach them.” There was at first no response, only a protesting shrug, and a disposition to avoid any direct refusal by moving away. Leacraft spoke again. “The snow packs easily; we can get there on snow-shoes in a short time. There can be no danger. These unfortunate people are imprisoned in the church, I think; there’s a woman there; the man needs help to get her out; he probably could break his way over here, but he can’t drag her with him, and he won’t leave her. It’s murder to turn our backs on them.” Leacraft was alone, save for the presence of the second speaker. The rest had disappeared, and the thud of their mallets and the rattle of the sledges acquainted him with their distant operations. “Meester, I’ll gie ye a haud. There’s snaw-shoes down the track in a tram; I’ll hae them here in a jiffy.” He vanished down the long cut. Leacraft called after him: “Bring two bottles of whiskey. You can use my name for them at the hotel.” While he waited for the man’s return, Leacraft outlined a possible avenue of approach to the imprisoned couple, if couple it was. He could indistinctly see--the day was waning--that on the west side of Hanover street, by reason of the north-westerly direction of the storm, the housetops had formed a partial protection to the street below, and that the heavy ridged hill of snow occupied the centre of the street, lurching over against the west. Up the short slope this partial shelter continued, but in George street, beyond, the storm drove scurrying blasts of wind that whirled the snow upward in fantastic pirouetting volleys, and, doubtless, with wicked intent, had piled the drifts up in insurmountable entrenchments against the doors of the buildings on that street. The prospect of progress there was discouraging. Still there would be ways; the renewed calls nerved him to desperation. The volunteer returned with the snow-shoes, a pair for both of them, and an extra pair for the imprisoned man, and the bulging bulk of three bottles of whiskey. He explained the latter excess: “They gied me the thraw, and I had no heart to haud the ither back. Let well eneugh alone, I say.” “Now, my brave friend, we must know each other’s name, though we shall not be separated, as we must be tied together. But men working in peril become close companions,” said Leacraft to the man.