We had escaped
the clutches of the wind, to drown in fog, and in five minutes I had
beside me a small, ghostly form with frosted hair, and a white rime on
his jacket. The Boy was like a figure on a great iced cake, for the
ground was whitened too.
Luckily, the ascent was over, and we were on grassy, undulating land
where stunted trees stood here and there like pointing wraiths in the
misty gloom. Dimly I could see, now and then, a daub of paint, red as
a splash of blood, on a dark boulder, to guide travellers towards the
summit hotel. Had it not been for these, it would have been impossible
to find the way, or keep it if found.
We could walk side by side here, and looking down at the Boy, I could
see that he was shivering.
"Can it be that a few hours ago the mere exertion of walking made us
so hot that we had to mop our foreheads, and fan ourselves with our
hats?" I asked.
"Let's talk about it," said the Boy. "It may warm us, just to
remember."
"Are you very cold?"
"Not so ve-r-y."
"Your teeth are chattering in your head. Stop, we'll have our
overcoats out of the packs."
"I don't want mine."
"Nonsense; you must have it."
"To tell the truth, I haven't got it with me. I gave it to the
upstairs waiter at Chamounix. He told me a lot about himself, and he
was in trouble, poor fellow; he'd been discharged for some fault or
other, and was so poor that he was going to walk home, in the farthest
part of Switzerland.
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