Like Scott, she thought of the guide, though the hope was a forlorn one.  He might know of this shelter; but whether in the awful darkness he would ever be able to find it she strongly doubted.  Their absence must have been discovered long since, she was sure; and Scott—­Scott would be certain to think of the mountain path.  He would remember his sister’s wild words of the day before, and he would know that she, Dinah, had had no choice but to accompany her upon the mad quest.  It comforted her to think that Scott would understand, and was already at work to help them.  If by any means deliverance could be brought to them she knew that Scott would compass it.  His quiet and capable spirit was accustomed to grapple with difficulties, and the enormity of a task would never dismay him.  He had probably organized a search-party long ere this.  He would not rest until he had done his very utmost.  She wondered if he would come himself to look for them; but discarded the idea as unlikely.  His infirmity made progress on the mountains a difficult matter at all times, and he would not wish to hamper the movements of the others.  That was like Scott, she reflected.  He would always keep his own desires in the background, subservient to the needs of others.  No, he would not come himself.  He would stay behind in torturing inaction while fitter men fared forth.

The thought of Eustace came again to her.  He would be one of the search-party.  She pictured him forcing his way upwards, all his magnificent strength bent to the work.  Her heart throbbed at the memory of that all-conquering presence—­the arms that had held her, the lips that had pressed her own.  And he had stooped to plead with her also.  She would always remember that of him with a thrill of ecstasy.  He the princely and splendid—­Apollo the magnificent!

Always?  A sudden chill smote her heart numbing her through and through.  Always?  And Death waiting on the threshold to snatch her away from the wonderful joy she had only just begun to know!  Always!  Ah, would she remember even to-morrow—­even to-morrow?  And he—­would he not forget?

Isabel stirred in her arms and murmured an inarticulate complaint.  Tenderly she drew her closer.  How cold it was!  How cruelly, how bitingly cold!  All her bones were beginning to ache.  A dreadful stiffness was creeping over her.  How long would her senses hold out, she wondered piteously?  How long?  How long?

It must be hours now since they had entered that freezing place, and with every minute it seemed to be growing colder.  Never in her life had she imagined anything so searching, so agonizing, as this cold.  It held her in an iron rigour against which she was powerless to struggle.  The strength to clasp Isabel in her arms was leaving her.  She thought that her numbed limbs were gradually turning to stone.  Even her lips were so numbed with cold that she could not move them.  The steam of her breath had turned to ice upon the wool of her coat.