“A Frenchman would come up here—no, he would not: this would be too difficult and rough; he would get hot and tired, and pick his way for fear of hurting his shiny boots. But if he did he would seek two or three bright flowers to wear in his coat, he would look at the mountains, and then sit down idle.”
“And the English?” said Saxe.
“Ah, yes, you English! Nothing escapes you, nor the Americans. You are always looking for something to turn into money.”
“Which we are not doing now,” said Dale quietly. “But very few people come up here.”
“Very few, but those who have cows or goats up on the green alps.”
“And you think this is one of the grandest and wildest valleys you know?”
“It is small,” said the guide, “but it is the most solitary, and leads into the wildest parts. See: in a short time we shall reach the glacier, and then always ice, snow, and rock too steep for the snow to stand, and beyond that the eternal silence of the never-ending winter.”
Two hours’ climb more than walk, with the sun coming down with scorching power; but in spite of the labour, no weariness assailing the travellers, for the air seemed to give new life and strength at every breath they drew. But now, in place of the view being more grand, as they climbed higher the valley grew narrow, the scarped rocks on either side towered aloft and shut out the snowy peaks, and at last their path led them amongst a dense forest of pines, through whose summits the wind sighed and the roaring torrent’s sound was diminished to a murmur.
This proved to be a harder climb than any they had yet undertaken, the slope being very steep, and the way encumbered by masses of rock which had fallen from above and become wedged in among the pine trunks.
“Tired, Saxe?” said Dale, after a time.