“But how can they have been so stupid as to pick those?” said Perry petulantly.
“They don’t pick them,” replied Cyril. “Only they are obliged to go along any places there are. Yes, we shall have to go along yonder.”
“Impossible.”
“How would you go, then?” said Cyril. “We’re not flies; we can’t climb up those walls; and you couldn’t go over the mountains if you wished, because of the ice and snow. You must go in and out round them where the valleys are open, and this is open enough. There is no other way.”
“But, I say, shan’t you be—er—just a little afraid to go down there?”
“No,” said Cyril quietly. “I don’t feel afraid a bit. There’s only one thing I feel afraid of now.”
“What’s that? Falling off one of the precipices?”
“No,” said Cyril sadly. “Meeting my father.”
Perry was silent, and his friend turned to Diego, who was going from mule to mule, examining the knots in the hide ropes by which the baggage was secured to the pack-saddles.
“Which way does the road go now?” he asked.