Obenreizer, walking to and fro in the gallery without ceasing, signed to
Vendale to help him unbuckle his knapsack. They could see each other,
but could not have heard each other speak. Vendale complying, Obenreizer
produced his bottle of wine, and poured some out, motioning Vendale to
take that for warmth's sake, and not brandy. Vendale again complying,
Obenreizer seemed to drink after him, and the two walked backwards and
forwards side by side; both well knowing that to rest or sleep would be
to die.
The snow came driving heavily into the gallery by the upper end at which
they would pass out of it, if they ever passed out; for greater dangers
lay on the road behind them than before. The snow soon began to choke
the arch. An hour more, and it lay so high as to block out half the
returning daylight. But it froze hard now, as it fell, and could be
clambered through or over. The violence of the mountain storm was
gradually yielding to steady snowfall. The wind still raged at
intervals, but not incessantly; and when it paused, the snow fell in
heavy flakes.
They might have been two hours in their frightful prison, when
Obenreizer, now crunching into the mound, now creeping over it with his
head bowed down and his body touching the top of the arch, made his way
out. Vendale followed close upon him, but followed without clear motive
or calculation. For the lethargy of Basle was creeping over him again,
and mastering his senses.
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