Those who had reached the top in advance were found waiting, and soon the entire party was collected. They then made their way through the cedars and low bushes toward the hotel.
To the surprise of all, they failed to find at the hotel their friends who had chosen to go up by team.
On the veranda, however, a man sat smoking a cigarette and enjoying the beautiful sea view. It was Porfias del Norte.
As he saw them, Del Norte rose and waved his hand, bowing with the grace of a dancing master and smiling with the sweetness of a beautiful woman.
“Hail to the mighty mountain climbers!” he cried, in a musical voice. “I welcome you as kindred spirits. I, too, climbed the mountain by that path. I found it toil, yet it was toil well rewarded.”
“You climbed by that path?” said Bart Hodge, regarding Del Norte in surprise. “Why, I didn’t suppose you ever exerted yourself to such an extent, señor. It seems utterly improbable that you should do so. What could have been your object?”
“Yes, what could have been your object?” muttered Browning. “I was fooled into it. You must have had an object.”
“They told me how beautiful the scenes were my eyes could behold while climbing the mountain that way. I am a lover of beauty. I adore nature. A hundred times I paused while making the ascent and turned to look back. Down almost directly beneath me lay the beautiful village of Camden, with its snug little harbor, with the blue bay and the purple islands beyond, and then with such a grand stretch of country and the village of Rockport yonder, smoke rising from its limekilns. The winding, brown roads, the fields, the grass, and away down there another place, which they call Rockland, also with its smoking kilns. And toward the west were other mountains, rugged, and wooded, and broken. Then over all was this deep blue sky—this sweet blue sky! And the sunshine warmed me, and the sweet airs thrilled me. Oh, yes, I was well repaid—well repaid for my climb.”
“Señor del Norte,” said Inza, “you seem to have the soul of a poet.”
“I have,” he answered, bowing again to her. “It’s the poet’s heart that beats in my bosom.”