point--whether there
were ledges that would answer the purpose?

With his eyes, therefore, keenly scanning the face of the cliff, he kept
on along its base, walking slowly, and in silence.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

KARL CLIMBS THE LEDGE.

He continued on until he had reached that end of the valley most remote
from the hut, and along the whole of the cliffs that he passed his
reconnoissance had been fruitless. He saw many ledges, and some of
considerable width--quite wide enough to rest a ladder upon, and also
allow it a proper lean to the wall. Some were higher and some lower;
but unfortunately they were not above one another, as Karl desired to
find them. On the contrary, they were far apart--so that if one of them
could have been reached by means of a ladder, as many of them might,
this would in no way facilitate communication with the one that was
higher up.

Of course then, for Karl's purpose, these ledges were of no avail; and,
after observing their relative situations, he passed on with looks of
disappointment. At the farthest end of the valley--that is, the place
farthest from the hut--there was a little bay, or indentation, in the
cliffs. As already stated, there were several of these at intervals
around the valley, but the one in question was the largest of any. It
was very narrow, only a few yards in width, and about a hundred in
depth--that is, a hundred yards from the line, which indicated the
general outline of the valley, to the apex of the angle where the
indentation ended. Its bottom was nearly upon the same level with that
of the valley itself, though it was raised a little higher in some
places by loose rocks, and other _debris_ that had fallen from the
impending cliffs.

Karl had entered this bay, and was regarding its cliffs all around with
intense eagerness of glance. Any one who could have seen him at that
moment would have observed that his countenance was brightening as he
gazed; and that pleasant thoughts were springing up within his bosom.
Any one who had seen that face but the moment before, and had looked
upon it now, could not fail to have noticed the change that had so
suddenly come over it--a perfect contrast in its expression. What had
produced this metamorphosis? Something of importance, I warrant; for
the young botanist, naturally of a sober turn, but now more than ever
so, was not given to sudden transitions of feeling. What, then, was the
cause of his joy?

A glanc