And we had left the
summer behind, on lower levels; we did not need to remind ourselves
now that it was autumn. By noon we were _en route_ again, but the
brilliance of the day had gone. As we looked back at the world we were
leaving, serrated mountains were dark against flying silver clouds,
and when we neared the Col, a fierce north wind, which had been lying
in wait for us above, swooped down like a great bird of prey. We had
heard it shrieking from afar, but now we had penetrated into its very
eyrie; and as we crept, like flies upon a wall, along the tiny path
which merely roughened the sheer rock precipice, the wind caught and
clawed us with savage glee.
For a wonder, the much-travelled Joseph had never before made the
ascent of Mont Revard, therefore a certain pioneer instinct on which I
pride myself, and yesterday's research in the admirable map of the
Ministry of the Interior, alone gave us guidance. I did not see how we
could have come wrong, yet each moment it appeared that our neglected
path had reached its end, like an unwound tape-measure. Could it be
possible that this broken, ill-mended thread was the clue which would
eventually lead us to the Col de Pertuiset, and the chalet-hotel far
away upon the summit of the mountain?
The Boy and I were ahead now, I sheltering him slightly from the cold
blast with my body, as I walked before him.
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