Three or four awkward bits were circumvented; a couloir or gully full of snow mounted; and then there was a long climb up a moderate slope toward where a ridge of rocks stood out sharply, with snow sloping down on either side, the ridge running up far into the mountain; but before they could get to this a deep bed of old snow—“firn” Melchior called it—a great sheet, like some large white field, had to be passed.
But this was mastered, and the climb began up towards the ridge.
“The herr remembers this?” Melchior said.
“No,” said Saxe.
“Oh yes, you remember: that is the arête,” said Dale.
“That? What! right up there?”
“Yes. Are you surprised?”
“Yes: I thought we had passed that, down below somewhere, hours ago.”
“More faith in the size of the mountains,” said Dale merrily. “Well, Saxe, how do you feel now? Will you sit down and wait!”
“No,” said the boy, through his set teeth, “I’m going right to the top.”