Miles and miles,--rods in fact. Aeons of space after that, in which huddled, bent figures in the grip of stormdom, climbed, veering, swinging about the easier stretches, crawling at painfully slow pace up the steeper inclines. Upward through the stinging blast of the tempest they went, toward the top of a stricken world. Late afternoon; then Medaine turned toward the bleeding man beside her. "A mile more." She said no more. He nodded in answer and extended a hand to aid her over a slippery stretch of ice-coated granite. Timber line came and went. The snowfall ceased, to give way to the grayness of heavy, scudding clouds and the spasmodic flurries of driving white, as the gusty wind caught up the loose fall of the drifts and whirled it on, like harassed, lost souls seeking in vain a place they could abide. And it was in one of the moments of quiet that Medaine pointed above. Five splotches showed on the mountain side,--the roofs of as many cabins; the rest of them were buried in snow. No smoke came from the slanting chimneys; no avenues were shoveled to the doorways; the drifts were unbroken. "Gone!" Houston voiced the monosyllable. "Yes. Probably on to Crestline. I was afraid of it." "Night's coming." "It's too late to turn back now." And in spite of the pain of bleeding, snow-burned lips, Houston smiled at her,--the smile that a man might give a sister of whom he was inordinately proud. "Are you afraid?" "Of what?" "Me." She did not answer for a moment. Then: "Are you afraid--of yourself?" "No. Only men with something on their conscience are afraid." She looked at him queerly, then turned away. Houston again took the lead, rounding the stretches, then waiting for her, halting at the dangerous gulleys and guiding her safely across, but silently. He had said enough; more would require explanations. And there was a pack upon his back which contained a tiny form with tight-curled hands, with eyes that were closed,--a poor, nameless little thing he had sworn to carry to grace and to protection. At last they reached the cabins. Houston untied the bond which connected them and loosened his snowshoes, that he might plunge into the smallest drift before a door and force his way within. There was no wood; he tore the clapboards from a near-by cabin and the tar paper from the wind-swept roof. Five minutes later a fire was booming; a girl tired, bent-shouldered, her eyes drooping from a sudden desire for sleep, huddled near it. Houston walked to the pack and took food. "You would rather eat alone?" "Yes." "I shall be in the next cabin--awake." "Awake?" "Yes. I'd rather--keep watch." "But there is nothing--" "Illness--a snowslide--a fresh drift. I would feel easier in mind. Good night."