“But the Soroche, your Excellency,” ventured the boy. “For all strangers have it; and many die, even in crossing the slope. Only we who were born here can go so high.”
“We have to go, my boy; for I must look at the snow fields and the cliffs of ice, and measure them,” said the Professor, kindly. “I know well of the mountain sickness, and we will be very careful. Besides, we are both very strong.”
THE HOME OF THE SOROCHE
“It is not always of the strong,” persisted Ramon. “Sometimes the sick cross in safety, and those who are very large and red—even larger than your Excellency’s friend—fall suddenly and never rise again; for the Soroche is stronger than any.”
“You are quite right, my wise friend. It is terrible. But all do not fall victims, and we must brave it.”
“At the least, Excellency, let me go also! For I know these hills very well, and perhaps I could help. As for the llamas, my brother Sancho comes even yonder, and he will herd them.”
“You won’t really take the little rat up there, will you, Professor?” broke in Barton. “It would be the death of him.”
“M-m! I only hope we may be as safe as I know he will be! Está bien, my boy! Vamos!”[15]
At nine the next morning the three were entering the edge of the snow fields. They had camped for the night in a deserted hovel at the head of the valley; and there the mules could be seen grazing, pulling as far down bill as their ropes would allow. The hut was not a mile behind; but the travelers had been ever since daylight coming thus far. The Professor looked old; and Barton’s big chest was heaving violently. As for Ramon, he clambered along steadily and soberly, stopping only when he saw the others had stopped.