“Oh, why did I wear these high heeled shoes!” she half sobbed.
The words were no sooner out of her mouth (and probably nobody heard them for the shrieking of the wind along the stony ground), when a terrific gust hit the party in the faces, its force knocking their breath out, the hail-like, freezing cloud stinging their faces, the damp cold of it numbing them. The girl fell again, Rob holding her enough to break the fall. Mr. Rogers ahead also fell, but intentionally. He made a trumpet with his hands.
“Lie down and get your breaths!” he shouted. “Then go on in the next lull as far as you can!”
They all got up again when the hurricane blast was over, and, heads down into the teeth of the icy wind, they pushed on, till the next gust made them fall down for shelter.
“Two miles in an hour!” Peanut was thinking. “We aren’t going a quarter of a mile an hour at this rate. Will we ever get there?”
But the rest were struggling on, and he struggled, too, though his instinct was to turn back to the wind, and beat it for the Crawford House, not realizing that over four miles of bare summit lay between him and the sheltering woods.
Suddenly Art and Mr. Rogers ahead gave a cry. The rest, looking, saw dimly in the swirling vapor only a pile of stones and a cross.
“It’s the spot where Curtis died,” Mr. Rogers shouted. “We have only a quarter of a mile to go.”
“Gee, I don’t think it’s very cheerful,” said Peanut. “I’m near frozen now.”
At the sight of the cross the girl gave way. She began to sob, and Rob felt her weight suddenly sag heavily on his arm.