They had nothing to say
to each other. They sat and watched the sun go down with drawn eyes
and a queer stolidity which comes to men in great cold, as if their
souls were numb.
As the sun sank, the shadows turned bluer, and all the snow gleamed
like a lake. The silver tints slowly turned to gold; the greys grew
darker. The distant lines of pines were almost black now, a
silhouette against the golden sky. Near at hand the little
inequalities in the snow loomed blue, like deeper pools in shallow
water.
The sun sank very slowly, moving along the horizon almost parallel
with it towards two bars of golden cloud awaiting it, the bars of
the West forming a prison to this poor pale captive of the snows.
The stems of a few silver-birch near at hand were rosy now, and
suddenly the snow took a similar tint. At the same moment, a wave
of cold seemed to sweep across the world.
The sun went down at length, leaving a brownish-red sky. This, too,
faded to grey in a few minutes, and a steely cold gripped the world
as in a vice.
Louis d'Arragon made a sudden effort and rose to his feet, beneath
which the snow squeaked.
"Come," he said. "If we stay, we shall fall asleep, and then--"
Barlasch roused himself and looked sleepily at his companion. He
had a patch of blue on either cheek.
"Come!" shouted Louis, as if to a deaf man. "Let us go on to Kowno,
and find out whether he is alive or dead."
CHAPTER XX.
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