At length I reached the place where the smooth rock outcropped and took my skis off. Across my shoulders they were a dead weight. They cut into my shoulders and weighed me down so that I staggered rather than walked.
But at length I stood at the very top of the pass. The air was white — translucent with light as it had been when we had passed this point nearly five hours ago. The peak of Popena stood up, cold and black, and all around me was that world of angry-looking crests. The wind came up from Col da Varda with a violence that whipped the snow away from under my very feet. Everything was just as it had been before, except that Mayne was no longer with me.
I stumbled on from outcrop to outcrop until I stood on the rim of that white basin out of which we had climbed. I set my skis up-ended in a drift and stared unhappily at that frightening slope. The tracks we had made were still there, a line of hachures that rose to meet me out of the grey murk of snow that filled the lower reaches of the pass. The ski marks were faint and dusted with snow. But they were still visible, like a friendly signpost, marking the way back to warmth and safe sleep.
I put on my skis again and then, very slowly, began the descent, side-stepping down into grey cotton-wool clouds of snow. I kept my eyes on my feet. Once and once only was I fool enough to look down the line of the faint ski marks I was following. They seemed to fall away from under my skis and my knees became weak and trembled, so that I dared not make the next step down for fear the upper ski would slip. It took me ten minutes, or thereabouts, to nerve myself to continue. After that I kept my eyes on my skis. My exhaustion was so great that I found difficulty in placing my skis properly and several times one or other of my skis began to slide from under me.
But I made it in the end. And it was a great relief to see the ski points sizzling through the snow of their own accord like the prows of two ships, thrusting the powdered snow back on either side. I felt safe then, even though the leaden grey cloud mist closed about me and the snow began to blow into my face.
I must have been about half-way down the pass, when figures loomed out of the driving snow. There were several of them. I forget how many. But I saw Joe's heavy bulk among them. I hullooed to them and waved one of my sticks. They stopped. I made straight for them, the snow fairly melting under my skis. They seemed to come towards me very fast out of a blur of snow. I remember seeing Joe crouch down, training his baby camera on me. Then the blur became a blank. Apparently I just fell unconscious in my tracks.
When I came to, rough hands were chafing at my legs and arms. I was lying on the snow and Joe was bending over me. The cold rim of a flask touched my lips and I nearly choked with the fire of brandy in my throat. Somebody had taken off my skis and a blanket had been spread over me.
'What happened?' Joe asked.
'Mayne,' I gasped. 'Tried to — murder me.' I closed my eyes. I felt so tired.
As if from a great distance, I heard Joe's voice say, 'Must be delirious.'