Long before daylight they were on their way, with the air feeling cold and numbing as they climbed the loose ash and cinders which formed the slope. The great cracks in the mountain-side were successfully passed, and by sunrise they were high enough up to get a glorious view over the island, while a couple of hours after, a point was reached which enabled them to trace the greater part of the coast line and learn by the barrier reef with its white foam that without doubt they were upon an island.
“Now, then,” cried Panton, after a brief halt for refreshment, “how long do you say it will take us?”
“Two hours,” said Oliver, gazing up at the remainder of the slope, and thinking of how quiescent the volcano was: for save an occasional trembling or vibration under foot, all seemed still.
“One hour at the most,” said Drew. “Come on.”
“I say the same,” cried Panton. “Come on.”
Oliver proved to be nearest as to time, for they all referred to their watches when the above words were spoken, and again, when, after a long weary scramble over the yielding ashes, from which came breathings of hot, stifling air.
“Two hours, forty minutes,” cried Drew. “I couldn’t have thought it.”
The hot, gaseous emanations had really seemed to be like breathings, and as they neared the top, they were conscious, as they paused again and again, of the mountain seeming to pant and utter sounds like weary sighs.
As they mounted higher, the heat began to grow suffocating, and it was at last so bad that Smith and Wriggs pulled up short and looked hard at their leaders.
“Well?” cried Oliver.