“All serene!”
The heroism of that night’s adventure was not all absorbed by the elder traveller. The boy who with indomitable hopefulness toiled up that steep ascent with a broken arm bandaged to his side, making nothing of his pain, was a type of English boy happily still to be met with, giving promise of men of the right stuff yet to come to maintain the good name of their country.
They were not much in the humour for admiring the wonderful beauty of the scene as the mist gradually cleared and above them rose the full white moon flooding the mountain and the hills beyond with its pure light. They welcomed the light, for it showed them the way; but they would have sold the view twenty times over for a pot of hot coffee.
At the top they met the tail end of the gale spending its little remaining force on the mountain’s back. It seemed like a balmy zephyr compared with the tempest of a few hours ago.
The descent down the broad grass track with its slight covering of snow towards Sharpenholme had little difficulty; but the jolting tried Percy’s arm as the steep climb with all its exertion had not done.
Jeffreys noticed the boy’s steps become more unsteady, and felt him lean with increasing heaviness on his arm.
“Percy, old boy, you are done up.”
“No—I—Suppose we rest a minute or two; I shall be all right.”
But while he spoke he staggered faintly and would have fallen but for Jeffreys’ arm in his.
“I think if you went on,” said he, “I could rest a bit and follow slowly.”