accountant, as he began to retrace his steps. "If I mistake not, he
made rather a heavy plunge that time, judging from the sound."

At that moment the clouds overhead broke, and a moonbeam shot down
into the forest, throwing a pale light over the cold scene. A few
steps brought Harry and the accountant to the spot whence the sound
had proceeded, and a loud startling laugh rang through the night air,
as the latter suddenly beheld poor Hamilton struggling, with his
arms, head, and shoulders stuck into the snow, his snow-shoes twisted
and sticking with the heels up and awry, in a sort of rampant
confusion, and his gun buried to the locks beside him. Regaining
one's perpendicular after a fall in deep snow, when the feet are
encumbered by a pair of long snow-shoes, is by no means an easy thing
to accomplish, in consequence of the impossibility of getting hold of
anything solid on which to rest the hands. The depth is so great that
the outstretched arms cannot find bottom, and every successive
struggle only sinks the unhappy victim deeper down. Should no
assistance be near, he will soon beat the snow to a solidity that
will enable him to rise, but not in a very enviable or comfortable
condition.

"Give me a hand, Harry," gasped Hamilton, as he managed to twist his
head upwards for a moment.

"Here you are," cried Harry, holding out his hand and endeavouring to
suppress his desire to laugh; "up with you," and in another moment
the poor youth was upon his legs, with every fold and crevice about
his person stuffed to repletion with snow.

"Come, cheer up," cried the accountant, giving the youth a slap on