day when the summit was reached, and hot and with
scanty breath I lay down on the short, stunted heather
and wondered why, hopeless of views without any particular
inducement, a summit, any summit, almost
invariably drew me up, though the climbing was painful
and the goal showed not a tithe of the beauties left
behind. Perhaps a feeling that enduring unnecessary
discomforts will one day be accounted to us for righteousness;
perhaps a good self-conceit that will rejoice over
the fact of “ going one better ” than our neighbours;
likeliest of all, the merest chance of seeing a little further
afield may be accounted sufficient magnet. That day I
was not destined to be rewarded for my climb, for a
rather bitter, withering blast caught me once more and
made the dreary walk over boulder-strewn fields but more
depressing; my toes were sore within the leather chaplis
I habitually wore, my face felt as if beaten with birches,
and the height made head and back ache, but I reached
the lonely tarn called the Echo Lake, and felt afraid to
raise my voice, fearing to discover my presence to the
presiding spirits who seemed so angry and forbidding
and warlike.
I only rested long enough to get a fresh supply of
breathing power, chumped some hard biscuits, the only
edible portion of my lunch left, the satchel containing
that and some drawing materials having slipped while
crossing the lower moraine, reducing more fragile
portions to an unappetising pulp, and then once more
I clambered down. I had intended returning by a
different route for the sake of seeing other parts of the
great forests, but I did not do so, for the sky was fiercely
threatening, the wind harried me so as to make thought
or observation difficult, and I feared losing the lightlymarked
track. Descents have none of the excitements
or thrills of the outward journey, and that day my return
seemed three times more dreary than the ascent. I
managed to miss the rhododendrons, and took a path
obliging me to cross and recross the frozen stream,
sinking occasionally in half-melted snow and chilling
my feet to almost unbearable numbness, and once more
arrived at Killenmerg, a whirlwind caught me, and it
was only by roughest battlings and a most determined
front to the opposition of the storm that I crossed the
moraine and regained the shelter of the forest, where I
lay under the shade of a great pine, stupidly abashed
at the weakness and small endurance I had shown in
accomplishing an unimportant excursion. The weather
was my only excuse, and though it was late for such
a storm, the coolies who had been watching the hillside
from the camp, and who were sent out with tea in the
hope of meeting me, acknowledged it to be of wintry
power.
More loitering on the summit would have involved
me in a duel with hail and thick snow, and next day
the side showed white where for some time previously
all snow had disappeared. Slowly making my way
down, keeping to the shelter of trees and bushes when
crossing the smaller mergs, I met the welcome tea
bearers, and one or two cups of that wonderful reviver
sent up my spirits to beyond even the powers of mercury,
and instead of returning immediately, I dawdled slowly
along, collecting flowers and filling my nostrils with the
fresh forest scents, a fragrance that acts as a stimulant,
stirring the pulses to more active life, bracing the
muscles to action, sweet tonics that, once inhaled, never
again leave wholly the lucky wight who has received
Q