an owl flew through the treetops, brushing the snow from the branches
with its wings; but the others also started. Marx alone walked quietly
and undisturbed beside his little horse's thick head; he was familiar
with all the voices of the forest.

It grew colder towards morning. Ruth woke and cried, and her father,
panting for breath, asked: "When shall we rest?"

"Behind the height; ten arrow-shots farther," replied the charcoal-
burner.

"Courage," whispered the smith. "Get on the sledge, doctor; we'll push."

But Costa shook his head, pointed to the panting horse, and dragged
himself onward.

The poacher must have sent his arrows in a strange curve, for one quarter
of an hour after another slipped by, and the top was not yet gained.
Meantime it grew lighter and lighter, and the charcoal-burner, with
increasing anxiety, ever and anon raised his head, and glanced aside.
The sky was covered with clouds-the light overhead grey, dim, and blended
with mist. The snow was still dazzling, though it no longer sparkled and
glittered, but covered every object with the dull whiteness of chalk.

Ulrich kept beside the sledge to push it. When Ruth heard him groan, she
stroked the hand that grasped the edges, this pleased him; and he smiled.

When they again stopped, this time on the crest of the ridge, Ulrich
noticed that the charcoal-burner was sniffing the air like a hound, and
asked: