In the meanwhile it had grown bitterly cold, and one never feels the cold so much as when a day’s arduous exertion has exhausted the natural heat of the body. Weston was also very hungry, and after beating his numbed hands he thrust them inside his deerskin jacket. They had probably reached no great height, but summer was only commencing, and it was evidently freezing. Indeed, the nights had been cold enough when he lay well wrapped up in the sheltered valley. Still, the mist, at least, climbed no higher. The stars were twinkling frostily, and opposite him across the valley a great gray-white rampart ran far up into the dusky blue. He watched it for a while, and then it seemed to grow indistinct and hazy, and when some time afterward he opened his eyes again he saw that there was no mist about the slopes beneath.
Then, as he looked about him, stiff with cold, he noticed that a half-moon had sailed up above the peaks. Its elusive light lay upon the slope, but ledge and stone seemed less distinct than their shadows, which were black as ebony. After that he commenced a struggle with himself, for, numbed as he was, he did not want to move, which is one of the insidious effects of cold. It cramps its victim’s volition as well as his body, and makes him shrink from any attempt at the muscular effort which would make it easier for him to resist it. After all, the endurance of bitter frost is rather a question of moral than physical strength, as every prospector who has crossed the snow-bound altitudes on the gold trail knows.
He forced himself to get up, and stood still, shivering in every limb, while a bitter wind struck through him as he gathered his resolution together. Then, stripping off his deerskin jacket, he flung it over one arm as he turned toward his companions’ shelter. Kinnaird was awake, and his daughter cried out drowsily when Weston stood looking down at him.
“It’s clearing, and I think I could get down,” he said. “It would be better if Miss Stirling came with me.”
“Yes,” said Kinnaird reflectively, “I think she ought to go.”
There was, however, a difficulty when Ida rose to her feet, and stood looking about her half awake. She could not speak distinctly, but she seemed bent on staying. Then Kinnaird made a sign to Weston, who quietly slipped his arm within the girl’s and drew her away. She went with him some little distance, too dazed to resist, and then, snatching her arm free, turned upon him white with cold and anger.
“What right have you or Major Kinnaird——” she began, but Weston checked her with a little forceful gesture.
“I, at least, have none at all,” he admitted. “In a way, however, I suppose I’m responsible for the safety of the whole party. Could you have done Miss Kinnaird any good by staying?”
Cold and half dazed as she was, a moment’s reflection convinced Ida that she could have done very little beyond helping to keep her companion warm. Weston, who did not wait for her answer, went on:
“Now,” he said severely, “do you feel as comfortable as usual, or are you almost too cold to move?”