It was horrible, in that wild waste, alone.  I tried to gather my scattered senses together.

Eastward, I know, the river lay, and that blinding brightness came from the east.  Southward a little distance, was the hill that we had last ascended on the evening before.  I could discern the merest outlines of the land, but I fancied that I could see that it sloped upward toward the south.

I set off in the direction of the hill, and soon I found myself climbing.  The elevation hid the sun, and this enabled me to glimpse my surroundings dimly, as through a heavy veil.

I called once more, and then I was scrambling up the hill, stumbling and falling on the ice-coated boulders.  My coat was open, and the wind cut like a knife-edge, but I did not notice it.  Perhaps from the hill-top I should see her.

“Jacqueline!  Jacqueline!” I screamed frantically.

No answer came.  I had gained the summit now, and round me I saw the shadowy outlines of the snow-covered rocks, but five or six feet from me a deep, impenetrable grey wall obscured everything.  I tried to peer down into the valley, and saw nothing but the same fog there.  Once more I called.

A dog barked suddenly, not far away, and through the mist I heard the slide of sleigh-runners on snow; and then I knew.

I scrambled down, slipping, and gashing my hands upon the rocks and ice.  At the foot of the hill I saw two straight and narrow lines on the soft snow.  They were the tracks of sleigh-runners.

I followed them, sobbing, and catching my breath, and screaming: 

“Jacqueline!  Jacqueline!”

Then I heard Simon’s voice, and with the sound of it my dream came back with prophetic clearness.

“Bonjour, M. Hewlett!” he called mockingly.  “This way!  This way!”

I turned and rushed blindly in the direction of the cry.  I had left my snow-shoes behind me in the hut, and at each step my feet broke through the crusted snow, so that I floundered and fell like a drunken man to choruses of taunts and laughter.

It was a horrible blindman’s bluff, for they had surrounded me, yelling from every quarter.

“This way, monsieur!  This way!” piped a thin, voice which I knew to be Philippe Lacroix.

A snowball struck me on the chin, and they began pelting me and laughing.  I was like a baited bear.  I was beside myself with rage and helpless fury.  The icy balls hit my face a dozen times; one struck me behind the ear and hurled me down half stunned.

I was up again and rushing at my unseen tormentors.  I heard the barking of the dogs far away, and I ran in the direction of the sound, sobbing with rage.  I pulled my pistols from my pockets and spun round, firing in every direction through that wall of grey, yielding mist that gave me place but never gave me vision.

The clouds had obscured the sky and the snow was falling again.  My hands were bare and numb, except where the cold steel of the pistol triggers seared my fingers like molten metal.