There was no time for discussion. The road was already palpably
thickening under their feet. Hale's arm was stiffened to his side by
a wet, clinging snow-wreath. The figures of the others were almost
obliterated and shapeless. It was not snowing--it was snowballing! The
huge flakes, shaken like enormous feathers out of a vast blue-black
cloud, commingled and fell in sprays and patches. All idea of their
former pursuit was forgotten; the blind rage and enthusiasm that had
possessed them was gone. They dashed after their new leader with only an
instinct for shelter and succor.

They had not ridden long when fortunately, as it seemed to Hale, the
character of the storm changed. The snow no longer fell in such large
flakes, nor as heavily. A bitter wind succeeded; the soft snow began
to stiffen and crackle under the horses' hoofs; they were no longer
weighted and encumbered by the drifts upon their bodies; the smaller
flakes now rustled and rasped against them like sand, or bounded from
them like hail. They seemed to be moving more easily and rapidly, their
spirits were rising with the stimulus of cold and motion, when suddenly
their leader halted.

"It's no use, boys. It can't be done! This is no blizzard, but a regular
two days' snifter! It's no longer meltin', but packin' and driftin'
now. Even if we get over the divide, we're sure to be blocked up in the
pass."

It was true! To their bitter disappointment they could now see that
the snow had not really diminished in quantity, but that the now
finely-powdered particles were rapidly filling all inequalities of
the surface, packing closely against projections, and swirling in
long furrows across the levels. They looked with anxiety at their