CHAPTER VII
Just behind the Burrows' cabin the ground fell away with startling abruptness. There were just two or three juniper bushes and a patch of dirty snow, then the rough edge—then space. One looked down almost terrified into a blue mist; and full three thousand feet below were the tops of big pine trees in another climate—almost in another world. Opposite there rose another granite precipice, smooth, grey, gigantic, the valley between reaching away on the right, round a bend, to the meadow where Arrapahoe Bill and Black Bear guarded their bulls.
On the left was the head of the gorge, with its glacier breaking over a cliff, and the broken river, roaring down the wall, fell into a lake deep blue as the very sky. This was the Throne glacier, the seat of what seemed like a chair, with the lake at its feet, the enormous cliffs on either side for arms, the back an Alp, ice-clad, but splintering upward into needle spires, now touched with the roseate glow of sunrise.
All along the westward sky glimmered the awakening summits of the Selkirks; eastwards, across the Kootenay trench, the Rocky Mountains hung like a belt of azure mist against the sunrise; but La Mancha, sitting on the verge of that huge precipice behind the cabins, took no thought of the day or of the morrow. A little wreath of smoke rose straight up from his pipe into the thin air, and the awful magnificence of the Alps had no existence for him while he thought of a woman. Her face was before him in a dream—the face of a sweet maid, bright with impudence, a wholesome nut-brown maiden innocent. Her innocence made the Blackguard want to protect her; the frank brown eyes made him desirous of study, that in their depths he might see what it was to be good. The Blackguard had tasted all the joys of life, save this one thing—purity. The aftertaste of pleasure was sour upon his lips, but happiness seemed yet ever so far away. "If I were only good," he said to his pipe, "but I'm not; wherefore she would find me out, then hate me." So he sat at the edge of the cliff, perched like a fly on a wall, until presently there came another fly stealing up softly behind; a female fly this, full as her little body could hold of wanton mischief, to wit, the Burrows girl, who clapped her dainty hands over both La Mancha's eyes.
"You must be Love," laughed the Blackguard, "blinding a chap like that. What nice soft fingers—Um! Get away, you minx, or I'll kiss you."
"Ugh!" said the minx, suddenly releasing him.
"Now, sit down here, Impudence, and tell me who taught you your manners."
"I couldn't help it," she said in justification.
"My Uncle is talking that poor boy to death in the cabin. Oh! so grave, so solemn; I wanted to scream; I got desperate! So I came out."
"Sit down, Impudence."