“What are we to do?” he shouted. “Good Lord! think of the house and of them two fuming for us to return! Shan’t we make a dash through the wood and try at least to get our bearin’s?” Tuke had heard a sound, and had bent over Dennis. He came to the opening. “The poor fellow is half-delirious, I think,” said he, “and in no state to go on. Make the effort, you, and I’ll stay here with him.” “David,” said Luvaine, “I’m for you. Give me a hand.” “No,” said the baronet--“not for all the little devils of Angels in the world!” He jumped down again. “We’ll stick together,” he cried. “What ails the man?” He was lying on his heap, flushed and with his eyes closed. Now and again his lips would mutter meaningless fragments of speech. “This is a girl in breeches,” said Luvaine. “We should have set him on a jackass.” “It wouldn’t have been courteous to throw all the burden on you, sir,” said Tuke politely. Blythewood burst out laughing. “David,” said the soldier in a high voice, “there have been those who have learnt before now the danger of riding me roughshod, and----” A fresh explosion greeted him, and he stopped, frowning heavily. “Captain Luvaine,” said Tuke, looking round, “I would remind you that this man, knowing himself of a poor constitution, has cheerfully submitted it to considerable hardship for your benefit----” “Well, sir, I make no denial of his cheerfulness, or of his sense of duty to his superiors.” “--And that for some time now a large burden of responsibility, wholly unconnected with any interest of mine, has lain upon my shoulders.” “You refer to the stone? Surely, sir, you don’t hold me to blame for it, or, in a matter of such importance to me, grudge the sacrifice of a little personal comfort?” “I leave you to judge of that--as of the propriety of some little courteous acknowledgment.” “You have it in full,” said the soldier sullenly. “If I fail to express it, you must understand me to be a man of few words.” Blythewood had his tongue in his cheek. “We’re all babes in the wood,” he cried; “with a fair chance of sufferin’ their fate. Let’s get under the leaves and tell stories, and not risk goin’ to heaven squabblin’. Hasn’t a man of us a flask about him?” They were not vouchsafed even that comfort. The long night drew upon them huddled down there in their burrow. The cold was at first piercing, and they soon fell silent, each as wrapped in dismal reflection as, inadequately, in his great-coat. They could not sleep, but only shiver and suffer; and the servant moaned and whispered intermittently through the endless hours. His master did what he could for him in the pitchy darkness, building him a pillow of dead leaves and drawing the skirts of his own surtout about the icy feet. Towards dawn, however, a little comfort of warmth triumphed in the cabined hole. This was because the snow had then completely enwrapped their place of refuge. One by one, weak and exhausted, they dropped into a shallow abyss of sleep.