FOUNDER OF HIS RACE 65 



Trne's thick black mane and blew it upwards, giving him 

 a spasm of cold on his neck. He shivered. A moan 

 swept through the hemlock boughs, they bent before the 

 wind. Margery moistened the end of her finger and held 

 it up, a thin skin of ice formed on its front. 



Beaten by the wind and blinded by the snow his old 

 storm-terror came over the horse, he wheeled and let the 

 biting blast beat against his haunches — head down and 

 heavy black tail against the on coming snow and numb- 

 ing cold. 



Once or twice he sniffed, as if in consultation with his 

 rider, but as she offered no advice, he sprang to the 

 shelter of a clump of firs and the harsh wind whistled 

 fiercely on. 



Margery slid from the saddle and with stiff but deft 

 hands she caught True's foot and threw him, Indian- 

 fashion, to the ground. Then she broke huge branches 

 of hemlock and piled them up as a brake against the 

 snow, crouching close to the willing body of the now 

 motionless horse. The wind, making a grating sound, 

 pressed hard against their brake but it did not give, and 

 trembling with cold the two waited for the storm to pass. 

 The snow fell and fell; like knives the icy splinters 

 lashed their eyelids and swirled on, tossing wave upon 

 wave of snow on their protection of boughs and mound- 

 ing it almost over them. 



A large branch, heavy with the weight of ice and 

 sleet, snapped from a tree near by and crashed to the 

 ground, but they did not stir. 



Angry mutterings came to t-hem through the evergreen 

 branches and shrieked off over the mountains like wind- 

 tossed spirits. Through the long hours they made hardly 

 a movement. 



At last the darkness was over and from out the place 

 where it went the sun came, flashing long rays of gold 



