"Now what the deuce does he mean by that?" Urquhart thought to himself. Had Lucy told him anything? He didn't believe it. Impossible. Women don't tell.
They had seven miles of snow, pretty soft by now, and steadily up hill. They bent themselves seriously to it, and found no occasion for talk. There were crevasses—green depths of death—to be avoided. Their guide, light-eyed for scares, seemed to know them all, and reserved his alarum for signs in the sky invisible to the party. He mended the pace, which became rather severe. Francis Lingen was distressed; Macartney kept back to give him company. Urquhart forged on ahead with the guide.
By four in the afternoon one at least of them was gruelled. That was Lingen. "If we don't get down after all, it'll go hard with Poplolly," Urquhart said to James. James replied, "Oh, we must get down. That's all nonsense." Urquhart said nothing, and they went on.
They reached a point where their guide, stopping for a moment, looked back at them and pointed forward with his staff. "Odde is over there," he said, and Urquhart added that he knew whereabouts they were. "If it were clear enough," he told them, "you might see it all lying below you like a map; but I doubt if you'll see anything." They pushed on.
Before the last slope, which was now close at hand, the ground became very bad. The crevasses showed in every direction, raying out like cracks on an old bench. The guide was evidently anxious. He gave up all appearance of conducting his party and went off rapidly by himself. They waited for him in silence; but presently Urquhart said, "I bet you any money he won't want to go down."
"Don't he want to dine as much as we do?" said James.
"He doesn't want to break his neck," said Urquhart; "that's his little weakness."
"I sympathise with him," James said; "but I should like to know more before I turn back."
"You'll only know what he chooses to tell you," Urquhart answered. Lingen was sitting on the snow.
The guide came back with firm steps. His eyes sought Urquhart's naturally.