Her face was set and white, but she met his gaze, and in her eyes
there was something that suggested confidence in him. He felt that he
could be sure of her nerve, but whether her strength or his would
suffice for the scramble back was another matter, and he was horribly
afraid. Kinnaird, lying flat down, held out his hand, and in a moment
or two Weston and the girl stood with the others close beneath the
rock. He did not know how they got there. He was quivering all
through, and the perspiration of tense effort dripped from him. While
he stood there gasping, the packet of provisions, which had apparently
rested for a few moments among the gravel dislodged by his efforts to
climb up, rolled down the slope, and he watched it rush downward until
he turned his eyes away. It was too horribly suggestive; but his gaze
was drawn back again against his will, and he saw the package vanish
suddenly. That made it quite clear that the slope ended in another
wall of crags.

He did not remember whether Ida or the others said anything to him;
but they crept on again, almost immediately, clinging to the rock, and
scarcely venturing to glance down at the climbing forest which now
appeared to lie straight beneath them but very far away. A cold wind
stung their faces, the rocks above rose higher, but there was, at
least, no snow beneath their feet, and they moved on yard by yard,
scarcely daring to breathe at times, until at length Kinnaird cried
out in a voice that was hoarse with exultation:

"We are over the worst!"

Then Weston gasped with sincere relief, for it was clear that they had
crept around the perilous corner. The wall of rock receded, and the
slope became less steep in front of them. It was, however, strewn with
massy fragments and debris carried down by the snow, and the sun that
flung a warm light upon it hung just clear of the peaks across the
valley. There was no doubt that his companions were worn out, and he
fancied that the girls could scarcely drag themselves along, but they
had now no provisions and it was clearly advisable to get down, at
least as far as the timber, where one could make a fire, before
darkness fell; and they pushed on. Arabella Kinnaird, scrambling over
a pile of ragged stones, came down heavily. She cried out as she did
so, and then rising with some difficulty, immediately sat down again
with her face awry.

"It's my knee," she said faintly.

Kinnaird scrambled toward her, but she waved him