"Do you think to climb higher, brother?" I questioned Tawannears, standing with arms folded, his eyes fixed upon the summit that seemed so near in that radiant atmosphere.
He nodded.
"'Tis no more than a mountain," I continued gently. "Do you not see?"
He turned somber eyes upon me.
"It looks like no other mountain Tawannears has ever seen, Otetiani."
I waved my hand from South to North, where gleamed a dozen peaks scarce inferior to the giant upon whose thighs we couched.
"They are not the same," he flamed with sudden passion. "Have not all the people we met told us that this was the Great Spirit? Tamanoas!" He repeated the name with a kind of ecstasy. "Did Otetiani ever see anything more like what the Great Spirit must be? Is He, then, a man like us—with feet and hands and a belly? No, He is Power and Strength and Beauty and Stillness!"
"Ja," agreed Corlaer shrilly. "Andt if we go up high we see all der country aroundt. Dot safes trouble. Ja!"
I unsheathed my tomahawk.
"Very well," I said. "'Tis settled. We try for the top. Therefore, heed what I say. A mountain is a jealous foe, strong, as you have said, eke treacherous. In France there is a mountain like to this, which is called the White Mountain. Men climb it for love of danger, but they go in parties roped together, so that if one falls, his mates may save him. We must cut up our buffalo-robes and braid the strips for rope, and besides, we shall need sticks to help us on the ice. Also, we must make shift to climb by daylight. In the darkness we should slip to our deaths—if, indeed, we do not die, in any case, which I think is most likely."