are not so black we
can see parts of the mountain that drops from our feet into the deep
invisible valley below. We can see enough to make out where we are. We
are in the Eagles' Home. Our ambition has been realised--but in what a
way! We reached the spot neither by the pathway nor up the rugged
steep--we rolled from the top; we came through the air with the
snowflakes.

Pretty snowflakes! Smith is hopelessly crippled, and I--the other
snowflake--am simply a living collection of bumps and bruises. We must
spend the rest of the bleak night strung up on this dizzy height. We
must wait till the morning--if we can live through the night.

What's that, down there--far away down there?

A light! a number of lights. They're moving--moving up. They've reached
the spot where we met the shepherd who told us of the two ways.

They've stopped. Hark! What's that?

A shout--a hail--loud and long continued, as though a lot of people are
calling together.

Hurrah! We're saved. The farmer has turned out a rescue party to find
and save us. Hurrah!

Gathering all my strength--all I have left--I answer the hail. Smith
joins me as well as he can. Once, twice, thrice we shout. We catch the
distant cry that tells us we have been heard.

For a minute the lights are stationary. Then--their bearers sending up
another great hail as though to tell us they know where we are and are
coming--we see the lanterns flashing forward up the track which leads
above our heads, and then round to the Eagles' Home. Mr. Griffiths, who
knows the hills as well as he knows his own farm lands, has told them
where we are from the direction of our frantic voices.

So cheer up, Smith--they're coming.

But they'll be such a long time coming--and we're so cold and numbed.
Smith is fainting again. So am I, I'm afraid--you must remember I am
knocked about. It will be such a long time before the coming help
reaches us.

Will it? Then what's that solitary light stealing up the jagged steep
below us? Who is it coming to us by the "hard" way, straight up the
precipitous mountain-side? It must be Griffiths--he's crawling up the
rough boulders--he's clinging hold of roots and branches, swinging
himself over the clefts. The shepherd said it couldn't be done--but
Griffiths is doing it. How torn his hands must be!

I can't be quite fainting, because I can see that Griffiths' lantern is
coming nearer and nearer.

Listen! I can hear his voice--only it sounds such a