Beyond the rock-belt, looking downward, they saw the long ascent of grass by which they had come; and lower still the dark pine-forest. Then intersecting valleys, dotted with hay-châlets; and here and there a tiny village, deep in shadow. But far above towered lofty peaks, bearing a hint of rose; and the soft colour grew bright; and the tide of light crept downward, revealing couloir after couloir, fold after fold, upon each mountain-side,—till, from beyond the peak which still hid the approaching monarch of day, streamed on either side slant rays of pure whiteness.
One moment the three were in shadow. Then, with a leap, sunshine burst forth, not white but golden; and the world around was transformed. Doris pulled off her woollen gloves, and held out chilled hands, bathing them in the flood of warmth, laughing with gladness.
"That was worth seeing," Maurice remarked, as their silent leader moved. "Are you getting on all right?"
"It's too lovely for anything," she said with energy. "I never enjoyed myself one-hundredth part as much in all my life."
Two hours of this rock-climbing brought them to the foot of a snow-slope, which formed the "shoulder" of the mountain. Far away upward from where they stood stretched a smooth sheet of sparkling purity.
"Now we shall be above the snow-line," joyously exclaimed Doris. "I've been longing for that, ever since I came to Switzerland."
"Which means—goggles."
"Must we? That beautiful snow! And the goggles will spoil it all so desperately. Must we, really? But of course, if I'm told—"
"I'm afraid it has to be."
Again they paused for a light meal. Pressford decided that roping was advisable, the slope higher up being steep, and Doris's experience small. When they set off, he as usual led; and Maurice, with his ruck-sack, came last. The snow was in good condition, and they made steady advance, though some scraping of steps with Pressford's ice-axe became needful before the end.