The heart of Red Pierre stopped. For he knew
the visions which came to men perishing with cold;
but he grew calmer again in a moment. This touch
of cold was nothing compared with whole months of hard
exposure which he had endured in the northland.
It had not the edge. If it were not for the wind
it was scarcely a threat to life. Moreover, the
singing sounded no more. It had been hardly more
than a phrase of music, and it must have been a deceptive
murmur of the wind.
After all, a gale brought wilder deceptions than that.
Some men had actually heard voices declaiming words
in such a wind. He himself had heard them tell
their stories. So he leaned forward again and
gave his stanch heart to the task. Yet once more
he stopped, for this time the singing came clearly,
sweetly to him.
There was no doubt of it now. Of course it was
wildly impossible, absurd; but beyond all question
he heard the voice of a girl come whistling down the
wind. He could almost catch the words. For
a little moment he lingered still. Then he turned
and fought his way into the strong arms of the storm.
Every now and then he paused and crouched to the snow.
Usually there was only the shriek of the wind in his
ears, but a few times the singing came to him and
urged him on. If he had allowed the idea of failure
to enter his mind, he must have given up the struggle,
but failure was a stranger to his thoughts.
He lowered his head against the storm. Sometimes
it caught under him and nearly lifted him from his
feet. But he clung against the slope of the hill,
sometimes gripping hard with his hands. So he
worked his way to the right, the sound of the singing
coming more and more frequently and louder and louder.
When he was almost upon the source of the music it
ceased abruptly.
He waited a moment, but no sound came. He struggled
forward a few more yards and pitched down exhausted,
panting. Still he heard the singing no longer.
With a falling heart he rose and resigned himself to
wander on his original course with the wind, but as
he started he placed his hand once more against the
cross, and it was then that he saw her.
For he had simply gone past her, and the yelling of
the storm had cut off the sound of her voice.
Now he saw her lying, a spot of bright color on the
snow. He read the story at a glance. As she
passed this steep-sided hill the loosely piled snow
had slid down and carried with it the dead trunk of
a fallen tree.
Pierre came from behind and stood over her unnoticed.
He saw that the oncoming tree, by a strange chance,
had knocked down the girl and pinned her legs to the
ground. His strength and the strength of a dozen
men would not be sufficient to release her. This
he saw at the first glance, and saw the bright gold
of her hair against the snow. Then he dropped
on his knees beside her.
