For many minutes they gazed at each other in silence, too unnerved, too horror-stricken to speak. And that they were so is little to be wondered at. They had just seen their companion blown into the abyss within a few paces of them. At that very moment they pictured him lying far, far down where the boiling vapours swirled blackly through s.p.a.ce-- lying in scattered, mangled fragments, poor relics of the strong, cool-headed man who but a moment ago was guiding them with such skill and judgment. And their own position was sufficiently alarming. Here they were, up in the clouds, exposed to the force and fury of a mountain storm whose duration it was impossible to pre-estimate.

"How awful?" gasped Alma, at length, during a lull in the bellowing of the gale. "How truly awful! Is--is there no chance for him?"

Philip shook his head gloomily, and there was a shudder in his voice.

"Not a shadow of a chance, I'm afraid. You saw, as we came along, the sort of drop there is on that side. But--try not to think of it."

"I cannot help thinking of it. Oh, it is too frightful!" and, thoroughly unnerved, she burst into a wild storm of tears.

It was too much for Philip. Not there on that lonely mountain height, enveloped in the black darkness of the cloud, witnessing her distress, her only protector, could he any longer restrain the tenderness which took possession of him with every glance from her eyes, every tone of her voice.

"Alma--darling"--he broke forth--"think only of yourself now. Keep up your spirits like your own brave self. Look. It may not last long, and once the wind drops we shall have no difficulty in finding the way."

His words of consolation--no less than those of love which had been drawn from him involuntarily as it were--seemed to fall on deaf ears.

The shock of the horrible fate which had overtaken poor Wentworth before their very eyes was too overwhelming, and she continued to weep unrestrainedly, almost hysterically. The black peaty turf of the narrow s.p.a.ce where they rested had grown wet and slippery, for it was beginning to rain, and overhead the grey crags loomed athwart the flying misty scud, breaking it up into long fantastic wreaths and streamers, where it swirled past the cloven and jagged facets of the rock.

"What are you doing?--No; I will not have that!" said Alma presently, resisting an attempt on his part to b.u.t.ton around her shoulders his coat, which he had taken off for the purpose.

"You must have it. I saw you shiver," he answered decisively, at the same time holding the garment around her in such wise as to make the very most of its warming powers.

"I will not. I am more warmly clad than you are. You will catch your death of cold yourself."

"Now, it's of no use arguing--you must have it. I have a will of my own sometimes, and I'll fling the coat over the cliff rather than wear it myself. It is cold, as you say," he added, with a violent shiver, "but I'm not made of sugar."

It was cold indeed. The wind blew chill and piercing, and the rain, which was driving in upon them in a sleety penetrating shower, began to render things more and more uncomfortable for poor Phil in his shirtsleeves. And yet amid the cold and the wet, weatherbound up there in that weird noonday night, with the horror of a comrade's fate still upon him--fear, uncertainty, and danger around them, Philip Orlebar was, strange to say, uncontrollably, blissfully happy. Stranger still, it might be that the day would come when he should look back to that period of doubt and horror spent in the semi-darkness of the mountain storm, and the fury of its icy blasts around their shelterless heads, with the same sad, aching hopelessness wherewith a lost soul might look upon the paradise it has forfeited by its own act.

The time went by--he standing before her in order that she might benefit by even that slight barrier from the force of the wind--talking ever, in order to keep up her spirits, to keep her mind from dwelling upon the horror they had both witnessed; but for which event, indeed, it is probable that he would have spoken all that was on his mind there and then. Even he, however, recognised that this was no time for anything of the kind; and indeed, in the fearless protectiveness of his demeanour, the tact and fixity of purpose wherewith he strove to take her out of herself, no one would have recognised the thoughtless, devil-may-care, and, truth to tell, somewhat selfish temperament of Philip Orlebar. His whole nature seemed transformed. He seemed a dozen years older. But the love tremor in his voice spoke the high pressure of restraint he had put upon himself. Did Alma detect it? We cannot say.

A faint halloo came through the opaque folds of the mist--then another much nearer. At the same time they realised that the force of the wind had materially abated; moreover it seemed to be getting much lighter.

"That's Fordham," said Philip, with a start. Then he answered the shout.

"Is Miss Wyatt all right?" sung out Fordham.

"Safe as a church," roared Philip, and the welcome news was pa.s.sed on to those waiting further back.

A ray of sunlight shot through the gloom, and lo, as if by magic, the opaque inky wall thus breached began to fall asunder, yielding before each successive piercing ray, and the patch of blue sky thus opened spread wider and wider till the whole of the _arete_ lay revealed, wet and glistening in the sunshine, and beyond the gleaming crags the cloudcap around the apex of the cone grew smaller and beautifully less until it was whirled away altogether.

"Where's Wentworth?" was Fordham's first query on joining them. Philip looked very blank.

"Come this way, Fordham," he said, leading the other to the spot, not many paces distant, where the unfortunate man had disappeared. "Look at that. What sort of a chance would a fellow have who went over there?"

Fordham looked at the speaker with a start of dismay, then at the line where the abrupt slope of the ridge broke into sheer precipice half a dozen yards below.

"I'm afraid he wouldn't have the ghost of a shadow of a chance," he muttered. "But--how was it?"

"Blown over," answered Philip.

"The devil!"

Both men stood gazing down in gloomy silence. The strength of the wind was still a trifle too powerful to be pleasant up there on the _arete_; but below, sheltered from its force, the whole vast depth of the valley was filled with a sea of snowy vapour, slowly heaving itself up into round billowy humps.

"By Jove! Did you hear that?" suddenly exclaimed Philip, with a start that nearly sent him to share the fate of the luckless Wentworth.

"Yes, I did," was the hardly less eager reply. "But--it isn't possible.

Wait--now--listen again!"

A faint and far-away shout from below now rose distinctly to their ears.

Both listened with an intensity of eagerness that was painful.

"Only some native, herding cattle down there!" said Philip, despondently.

"Shut up, man, and listen again. Cattle-herds in this canton don't as a rule talk good English," interrupted Fordham. "Ah! I thought so," he added, as this time the voice was distinctly audible--articulating, though somewhat feebly--"Any one up there?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

"About forty feet down. Get a rope quick. I can't hold on for ever."

"Now, Phil," said Fordham, quickly, "you're younger than I am, and you've got longer legs. So just cut away down to the Chalet Soladier, that one we pa.s.sed coming up, and levy upon them for all the ropes on the premises. Wait--be careful though," he added, as the other was already starting. "Don't hurry too much until you're clear of the _aretes_, or you may miss your own footing. After that, as hard as you like."

Away went Philip; Alma, her nerves in a state of the wildest excitement, dividing her attention between following with her eyes his dangerous course along the knife-like ridges, and listening to the dialogue between Fordham and Wentworth. The latter's fall, it transpired, had fortunately been arrested by a growth of rhododendron bushes, anch.o.r.ed in the very face of the cliff. He had no footing to speak of, he said, and dared not even trust all his weight upon so precarious a hold as the roots of a bush or two, especially where there could be but the most insignificant depth of soil. He was distributing his weight as much as possible, upon such slight slope as this bushy projection afforded; indeed, so constrained was his position that he could not even give free play to his voice, hence the faint and far-away sound of his first hail.

He hoped the rope would not be long coming, he added, for the bushes might give way at any moment; moreover he himself was becoming somewhat played out.

Alma felt every drop of blood curdle within her as she listened to this voice out of the abyss, and pictured to herself its owner hanging there by a few twigs, with hardly a foothold, however slight, between himself and hundreds of feet of grisly death. Even Fordham felt sick at heart as he realised the frightful suspense of the situation.

"Keep up your nerve, Wentworth," he shouted. "Phil has nearly reached the _chalet_ now. They can be here in half an hour."

"He is there now," said Alma, who was watching every step of his progress through his own gla.s.ses which he had left up there. "And the man is all ready for him--and--yes--he is meeting him with ropes. Now they are starting. Thank Heaven for that!"

Fortunate indeed was it for Wentworth that the _chalet_ was inhabited at that time of year, and that its occupier happened to be there that day.

The latter, who had watched the ascent, and had seen some of the party on the cone just before the cloud had hidden everything, was a trifle uneasy himself. But the sight of a tall athletic young Englishman tearing down the slope in his shirtsleeves confirmed his fears. He put two and two together, and, being a quick-witted fellow, had started to meet Philip with all the ropes his establishment could muster.

All this was shouted down to Wentworth for the encouragement of the latter. And the excitement of those on the _arete_, no less than that of the party left behind on the high _col_, became more and more intense as they watched the distance diminish between them and the bearers of the needful ropes, upon which depended a fellow-creature's life.

Minutes seemed hours. But what must they have seemed to the man who hung there over that dizzy height--his strength ebbing fast--counting the very seconds to the time his rescue should begin!

By the time Philip and the cowherd had joined him, together with Gedge, who had come to render what help he could, Fordham's plan was laid.

They could not all stand on the narrow _arete_ in such wise as to obtain anything like the requisite purchase on the rope. But on the other side of the ridge a precipitous fall of rock, some ten or twelve feet, ended in an abrupt gra.s.s slope. Here two of them could stand, holding the end of the rope, while two more on the apex of the ridge could direct the ascent of the rescued man as well as a.s.sist in hauling.

"Now, Phil," he said, "if you've quite got back your wind"--for the two men were somewhat out of breath with their rapid climb--"get away down there with Gedge, and hold on like grim death. No, Miss Wyatt, not you," in response to an appeal on Alma's part to be allowed to help.

"Four of us will be enough. We can manage easily."

There were two good lengths of rope, each about forty feet--for the peasants in mountain localities frequently adopt the precaution of tying themselves together when mowing the gra.s.s on some of the more dangerous and precipitous slopes. These were securely knotted together and manned as aforesaid.

"I don't like knots," muttered Fordham, as he let down the end, having first tied his flask to the same with a bit of twine the stopper being loosened so as to render the contents accessible without an effort--"I don't like knots, but there's no help for it. Now, Wentworth," he shouted, "is that right?"

"Little more to the left--about a yard and a half. There--so. All right. I've got it. Pay out a little more line."

"Take a pull at the flask, and then sing out when you're quite ready,"

bawled Fordham.