“Could you get along on my arm?” he asked.
“No,” said Arabella sharply, “I don’t think I could put my foot on the ground.”
Weston said nothing, though he realized that the situation was becoming serious. They had had no more than one hasty meal since early morning, and they were worn out. It was also, as he knew, very cold up on the hills at night. While he considered the matter, Kinnaird stretched out a pointing hand.
A trail of filmy vapor crawled out athwart the lower pines and covered them as it rolled rapidly upward. While they watched it the depths of the valley were filled and became a dim white plain that extended its borders as it ascended. Long billows of vapor rolled out from its edges and slid up the hollows, blotting out the somber ranks of climbing pines one by one until all had gone and rock scarp and rugged peak rose isolated from a vast sweep of mist. It crawled up the slope where they sat, and then stopped and came no higher, leaving the rampart of rock and snow behind them to glimmer coldly blue and gray against the clear green radiance of the evening sky. Kinnaird looked at Weston as if willing to entertain any suggestion.
“It’s clear that we can’t get down,” he said.
Weston nodded.
“I fancy that I could reach the timber, sir,” he said. “I’ll bring up a load of branches to make a fire.”
He loosed the blankets from his shoulders, and floundering down the slope was lost in the vapor.