"Ye're no goin', James?" she asked, anx-. iously.

"But I am, lass," he answered; and she knew him too well to say
more.

So those two went quietly out to save life or lose it, nor counted
the cost.

Down a wind-shattered slope--over a spar of ice--up an eternal
hill--a forlorn hope.

In a whirlwind chaos of snow, the tempest storming at them, the
white earth lashing them, they fought a good fight. In front, Owd
Bob, the snow clogging his shaggy coat, his hair cutting like lashes
of steel across eyes, his head lowered as he followed the finger of
God; and close behind, James Moore, his back stern against the
storm, stalwart still, yet swaying like a tree before the wind.

So they battled through to the brink of the Stony Bottom--only to
arrive too late.

For, just as the Master peering about him, had caught sight of a
shapeless lump lying motionless in front, there loomed across the
snow-choked gulf through the white riot of the storm a gigantic
figure forging, doggedly forward, his great head down to meet the
hurricane. And close behind, buffeted and bruised, stiff and
staggering, a little dauntless figure holding stubbornly on,
clutching with one hand at the gale; and a shrill voice, whirled
away on the trumpet tones of the wind, crying: