able
darkness and all profoundly still.

"It's strange that I should awake like this," he thought, slightly
shifting his position. "I'm tired, and was so drowsy that I felt as if
I could sleep a week, but I was never wider awake than I am this
minute--"

Amid the all-pervading silence he was sensible of a low, solemn murmur,
like that of the distant ocean. At first it seemed to be the "voice of
silence" itself, but it steadily increased in volume until its roar
became overpowering. Startled and frightened, he lay still, wondering
what it could mean, or whether his senses were deceiving him. Then he
suddenly remembered the vast masses of ice and snow which towered above
them all through the day. He recalled the stories he had read of the
glaciers and avalanches, and how Tim McCabe had referred to them as
sometimes overtaking travellers in this part of the world.

He knew what it meant, and, leaping from his couch, he shouted:

"Wake up! Quick! An avalanche is upon us!"

CHAPTER V.

THROUGH CHILKOOT PASS.

As Frank Mansley's words rang through the tent they were followed by
the awful roar of the descending avalanche, and all awoke on the
instant. But no one could do anything to save himself. They could only
cower and pray to Heaven to protect them.

Something struck the side of the tent, like the plunge of a mountain
torrent, yet it was not that, nor was it the snow. Tim McCabe knew its
nature, and catching his breath, he called:

"It's the wind of the avalanche! That won't hurt ye!"

The wonder was that it did not blow the canvas like a feather from its
path; but the tent held its position, and the appalling rush and roar
ceased with more suddenness than it had begun. The throbbing air became
still.

Jeff Graham, who had not spoken, struck a match, and holding it above
his head, peered around the interior of the tent, which he observed had
sagged a good deal from the impact of the avalanche's breath, though
the stakes held their places in the snow. He saw Frank Mansley standing
pale with affright, while Roswell, sitting on the edge of his couch,
was equally startled. Ike Hardman had covered his face with his
blanket, like a child, who thus seeks to escape an impending danger.
Incredible as it may seem, Tim McCabe was filling his pipe in the
gloom, preparatory to a smoke.

"Be aisy," was his comment, as he struck a match and held it above the
bowl; "we're as safe as if in 'Frisco, and a little safe