Hale's arm was stiffened to his side by a wet, clinging snow-wreath.

The figures of the others were almost obliterated and shapeless.

It was not snowing--it was snowballing! The huge flakes, shaken like enormous feathers out of a vast blue-black cloud, commingled and fell in sprays and patches.

All idea of their former pursuit was forgotten; the blind rage and enthusiasm that had possessed them was gone.

They dashed after their new leader with only an instinct for shelter and succor.
They had not ridden long when fortunately, as it seemed to Hale, the character of the storm changed.