The Woodsman had left no blazes, there being no tree to
mark. Holding on by clutching to the heather with our hands, we debated.
Finally, we chose the left-hand route as the one they had probably
taken. But when we reached the top, the Woodsman and the Little Boy were
not there. We hallooed, but there was no reply. And, suddenly, the
terrible silence of the mountains seemed ominous. Had they ventured
across the snow-bank and slipped?
I am not ashamed to say that, sitting on my horse on the top of that
mountain-wall, I proceeded to have a noiseless attack of hysterics.
There were too many chances of accident for any of the party to take the
matter lightly. There we gathered on that little mountain meadow, not
much bigger than a good-sized room, and waited. There was snow and ice
and silence everywhere. Below, Doubtful Lake lay like a sapphire set in
granite, and far beneath it lay the valley from which we had climbed the
day before. But no one cared for scenery.
Then it was that "Silent Lawrie" turned his horse around and went back.
Soon he hallooed, and, climbing back to us, reported that they had
crossed the ice-bank.
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