I tried to
shout--with the dimmest possible hope of being heard--rather to reassure
myself by the sound of my own voice; but my voice came husky and short,
and yet it dismayed me; it seemed so weird and strange, in that noiseless
expanse of black darkness. Suddenly the air was filled thick with dusky
flakes, my face and hands were wet with snow. It cut me off from the
slightest knowledge of where I was, for I lost every idea of the
direction from which I had come, so that I could not even retrace my
steps; it hemmed me in, thicker, thicker, with a darkness that might be
felt. The boggy soil on which I stood quaked under me if I remained long
in one place, and yet I dared not move far. All my youthful hardiness
seemed to leave me at once. I was on the point of crying, and only very
shame seemed to keep it down. To save myself from shedding tears, I
shouted--terrible, wild shouts for bare life they were. I turned sick as
I paused to listen; no answering sound came but the unfeeling echoes.
Only the noiseless, pitiless snow kept falling thicker, thicker--faster,
faster! I was growing numb and sleepy.
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