Nothing that would serve any purpose could be said, and they quietly strapped on their blankets.
There was not much snow when they set off, and fortunately the wind blew behind them, but the white haze narrowed in the prospect and Blake, breaking the trail, kept his eyes on the compass.

He was not at all sure of the right line, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was, at least, going straight.
After a few minutes, Harding glanced behind.

Their camping place had vanished, they were out in an open waste, and he knew that he had started on the last march he was capable of making.

Where it would lead him he could not tell, though the answer to the question was of vital importance.

For a time he thought of his wife, and wondered with keen anxiety what would become of her if his strength gave way before they reached the post; but he drove these cares out of his mind.