“Doesn’t seem possible,” she told herself. And yet, it did seem so real that she found herself expecting some strange Rip Van Winkle-like people to come swarming out of the cavern.
She shook herself as a rude blast of wind swept up from below, all but freezing her cheek at a single wild whirl.
“I must stop dreaming,” she told herself stoutly. “Night is falling. We are on the mountain, nearing the crest. A storm is rising. It is colder here than in any place I have ever been. Perhaps we have been foolhardy, but now we must go on!”
Even as she thought this through, Attatak pointed to her cheek and exclaimed:
“Froze-tuck.”
“My cheek frozen!” Marian cried in consternation.
“Eh-eh” (yes.)
“And we have an hour’s climb to reach the top. Perhaps more. Somehow we must have shelter. Attatak, can you build a snow house?”
“Not very good. Not build them any more, my people.”
“Then—then,” said Marian slowly, as she rubbed snow on the white, frozen spots of her cheek, “then we must go on.”