Ralph laughed lightly. "A child could climb it blindfolded in midwinter," he said. "Trust yourself to me, little Madge, to-morrow and—and——"
"For ever!" added Margaret almost inaudibly as they went into the hut together.
Mingled happiness and foreboding strangely disturbed her breast, and she sighed as she trod heavily on the face of one of the guides in climbing to her shelf. She heard his low sleepy murmur of apology as she drew her straw about her. There is no more courteous body of men in the world than the Swiss guides.
Next morning, after a hasty toilet with a handful of snow, the party set off shortly before sunrise. Ralph by general consent assumed the leadership. Taking careful soundings with his ice-axe and using his crampons with almost uncanny certitude, he guided his companions through a moraine and debouched on to a tremendous glacier.
As he turned to survey those behind them he perceived for the first time a scar under the left ear of Sir Ernest Scrivener.
"Teufel!" he exclaimed under his breath. "It is he! Moorsdyke! My mortal enemy!" But his meditations were interrupted by the stern nature of the work before them. Their route led them along the foot of a line of towering and trembling séracs. The vibration of a whisper might send them crashing down upon the party.
Placing one hand on his lips as a warning for silence, he dexterously cut steps in the ice with the other. Progress was slow and nerve racking. Every step had to be taken with infinite precaution. Once Lord Tamerton slipped and would have fallen headlong to destruction had not Ralph caught him by the ear and lifted him back into his steps.
But at length the trying passage was almost accomplished. Only Sir Ernest Scrivener remained in peril.
Unconsciously Ralph removed his fingers from his lips. Inexperienced as a climber, Sir Ernest imagined this to be a signal that the danger was now over.
"I say," he began.