Having gained one ridge, he saw the vague shadow of something higher in
front. Always higher, always higher. He knew he was following the track
towards the summit of the slopes, where was the marienhutte, and the
descent on the other side. But he was not really conscious. He only
wanted to go on, to go on whilst he could, to move, to keep going, that
was all, to keep going, until it was finished. He had lost all his
sense of place. And yet in the remaining instinct of life, his feet
sought the track where the skis had gone.
He slithered down a sheer snow slope. That frightened him. He had no
alpenstock, nothing. But having come safely to rest, he began to walk
on, in the illuminated darkness. It was as cold as sleep. He was
between two ridges, in a hollow. So he swerved. Should he climb the
other ridge, or wander along the hollow? How frail the thread of his
being was stretched! He would perhaps climb the ridge. The snow was
firm and simple. He went along. There was something standing out of the
snow.
Pages:
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983