Upon a snow-field in face of the peak of the Wolkenstein a small group of bold mountain-climbers were assembled, who had undertaken the ascent, and had actually accomplished the greater part of it,--the two guides, muscular, weather-beaten mountaineers, and Veit Gronau. They were provided with ropes, axes, and every accessory of a mountain-ascent, and were evidently taking a prolonged rest here.
They had left Oberstein on the previous day and had climbed to the borders of the limitless waste of rocks, where was a hut, in which they had taken shelter for the night, and then with the first dawn of morning they had attacked the cliff hitherto pronounced inaccessible. With persistent pains, with indescribable exertions, and with reckless contempt of the danger that threatened them at every step, they had scaled it. It had been ascended for the first time!
This consciousness, however, was the only reward of their success, for the weather, which had hitherto been tolerably clear, had changed within an hour or two. Thick mist filled the valleys, obscuring the outlook, and the crests only of the surrounding mountains were visible. The peak of the Wolkenstein, itself a mighty pyramid of ice rising sheer above them, was gradually disappearing. Gronau's field-glass was directed steadily to this pyramid, and the two guides exchanged a few monosyllabic remarks, while their grave faces showed their anxiety.
"I can see nothing more," said Veit, at last, taking the glass from his eyes. "The peak is veiled in mist; nothing can be distinguished any longer."
"That mist is snow," said one of the guides, an elderly man with grizzled hair. "I told the gentleman it was coming, but he would not listen to me."
"Yes, it was madness to attempt the ascent under such circumstances," Gronau muttered. "I should have thought we had done enough in surmounting this cliff. It was a terrific piece of climbing; few will ever venture to follow us, and it never has been done before."
Meanwhile, the younger guide had kept a sharp lookout in all directions; he now approached and said, "We can wait no longer, Herr; we must return."
"Without Herr Waltenberg? Upon no account!" Gronau declared.
The man shrugged his shoulders: "Only as far as the snow-barrow, where we can find shelter beneath the rocks, if it comes to the worst. Up here we could never stand against the snow, and we must descend the worst part of the cliff before it comes, or not one of us will get down alive. We agreed to wait for the gentleman at the snow-barrow."
Such had, in fact, been the agreement when Waltenberg separated from the party. The guides who had been prevailed upon to undertake the expedition by the offer of three times their usual fee had brought the two strangers successfully to the top of the cliff. Here they had positively refused to go farther, not because their courage failed them,--the summit lying directly before them was probably less dangerous to climb than the steep, almost perpendicular cliff they had already scaled,--but the experienced mountaineers well knew what those grayish-white clouds foreboded which were beginning to assemble, at first as light as hovering mist. They begged for an immediate return, and Gronau seconded their entreaties, but in vain.