pariah. But what cared we?

And perhaps it was the very greatness of my love for her that sometimes
made me fear; so that often in the ecstasy of a moment I would catch my
breath and wonder if it all could last. And when the poplars turned to
gold, and up the valley stole a shuddering breath of desolation, my fear
grew apace. The sky was all resplendent with the winter stars, and keen
and hard their facets sparkled. And I knew that somewhere underneath
those stars there slept Locasto. But was it the sleep of the living or
of the dead? Would he return?

CHAPTER IX

Two men were crawling over the winter-locked plain. In the aching circle
of its immensity they were like little black ants. One, the leader, was
of great bulk and of a vast strength; while the other was small and
wiry, of the breed that clings like a louse to life while better men
perish.

On all sides of the frozen lake over which they were travelling were
hills covered with harsh pine, that pricked funereally up to the
boulder-broken snows. Above that was a stormy and fantastic sea of
mountains baring many a fierce peak-fang to the hollow heavens. The sky
was a waxen grey, cold as a corpse-light. The snow was an immaculate
shroud, unmarked by track of bird or beast. Death-sealed the land lay in
its silent vastitude, in its despairful desolation.

The small man was breaking trail. Down almost to his knees in the soft
snow, he sank at every step; yet ever he dragged a foot painfully
upward, and made another forward plunge. The snowshoe thong, jagged with
ice, chafed him cruelly. The muscles of his legs ached as insistently as
if clamped in a vice. He lurched forward with fatigue, so that he seemed
to be ever stumbling, yet recovering himself.

"Come on there, you darned little shrimp; get a move on you," growled
the big man from within the frost-fringed hood of his parka.

The little man started as if galvanised into sudden life. His breath
steamed and almost hissed as it struck the icy air. At each raw intake
of it his chest heaved. He beat his mittened hands on his breast to keep
them from freezing. Under the hood of his parka great icicles had
formed, hanging to the hairs of his beard, walrus-like, and his eyes,
thickly wadded with frost, glared out with the furtive fear of a hunted
beast.

"Curse him, curse him," he whimpered; but once more he lifted those
leaden snowshoes and staggered on.

The big man lashed fiercely at the dogs, and