Fordham and Gedge now started to go down. Alma, however, begged for a little longer time. She might never see such a view again in her lifetime, she urged, and they had still the best part of the day before them. So Wentworth had yielded—that is to say, he had remained behind too, ignoring Philip Orlebar’s airy hint that he needn’t bother to wait if he would rather go, for that he—Phil—would undertake to bring Miss Wyatt down safely. But Wentworth, who was a good-natured fellow, and whose inclinations in nowise moved him to cut out Master Phil even temporarily, was impervious to the latter’s wishes now. He felt himself in a measure responsible, and Philip was comparatively inexperienced at mountain work.
So they sat and talked on, till suddenly Alma exclaimed, with a shiver—
“Why, the sun is going in. And look! we are almost in a cloud.”
Wentworth, hitherto absorbed in a favourite topic, doubly attractive as shared by a new and interested listener, looked quickly round.
“Yes,” he said, rising, “we had better go down.”
Chapter Eleven.
Peril.
It had stolen upon them like an enemy unawares.