I thought of that long steep descent that had ended so ignominiously here in the snow. And then I remembered with a terrible feeling of panic how Mayne's ski tracks had turned sharply along the floor of the valley. That flurry of ploughed-up snow! Mayne had done a Christi there. Yet only a few minutes earlier he had stopped expressly to find out whether or not I could do a Christi.
The truth dawned on me slowly as I lay there in the snow. Mayne had meant this to happen.
And I knew then that he would not come back.
CHAPTER FIVE
BACK ACROSS THE GLACIER
When I realised that Mayne would not come back, I had a moment of complete panic. Half-a-dozen times I tried to get on to my feet. But arms and legs were simply swallowed by the soft snow. At the last attempt, I suddenly felt utter exhaustion sweep over me. I put my hand out to hold myself in a sitting position so that my head would remain above the edge of the hole in which I lay. I was afraid of that hole. It was like a grave. The fresh snow drifted so persistently over the crisp edges of it. I felt smothered there. But my hand sank into that feather-bed of snow and I toppled slowly over to my side.
I lay still for a moment after that. My muscles relaxed. A great feeling of lethargy stole over me. Why should I care? Why should I struggle? I could just lie there and go to sleep. I wasn't cold any more — not for the moment. The snow had got inside my clothes and melted, but my blood had warmed my wet underclothes. Only my hand was cold where it was buried under me.
I began to move it about in order to extricate it. And then my fingers touched something hard — hard and rounded. With sudden renewed energy I searched about with my frozen fingers. It was the top of one of my sticks. Hope, and that sudden relief that hope brings, flooded through me. I lay with my head buried in the snow-caked sleeve of my left arm and sobbed with relief. One of my sticks! Anything seemed possible if only I could get hold of my sticks again.
And with hope came reason. I lay there for a moment planning my moves carefully. I must husband my strength. To get this one stick out. That was the first thing. Then search for the other with my skis.
I rolled over on to my stomach and began to dig with my hands. I dug all round the stick. And at last I freed it. I pulled it clear and wiped the snow from it. It was like the sight of a ship to a drowning man. I had no feeling in my right hand. I took my wet glove off and breathed on my hand and rubbed it. The circulation began to tingle and burn in the finger-ends.