Underfoot there was charcoal, and feathery ashes that whirled aloft, and sprinkling the men with a fine grey powder slowly settled again.
Alton was white in ten minutes, a gritty mire defiled the horse's sides, and Seaforth floundered, coughing, ankle-deep at times, with livid circles where he had rubbed the grime away about his eyes.

There was no sign of beast or bird, and the shuffle of weary feet and thud of hoofs rose muffled out of a great silence, until there was a stupendous crash somewhere in the distance.

The charred trunks took up the sound, and while they flung it from one to another Alton sprang forward and smote the pack-horse with his fist.
"Jump!" he said hoarsely.
Next moment Seaforth felt himself hurled forward, and glancing over his shoulder when he found his footing again saw a big trunk tilt a little.
It seemed to hang quivering for a second or two, then toppled further, and with a great humming came rushing down.

Then there was a stunning crash, and he stood gasping, deafened, and bereft of sight, amidst a stifling cloud of dust which swept into his mouth and nostrils and almost suffocated him.

When he could see anything again the horse was quivering, and the dust still rising from a shapeless pile a few yards behind him.