He approached, with dimmest curiosity.
It was a half-buried Crucifix, a little Christ under a little sloping
hood, at the top of a pole. He sheered away. Somebody was going to
murder him. He had a great dread of being murdered. But it was a dread
which stood outside him, like his own ghost.
Yet why be afraid? It was bound to happen. To be murdered! He looked
round in terror at the snow, the rocking, pale, shadowy slopes of the
upper world. He was bound to be murdered, he could see it. This was the
moment when the death was uplifted, and there was no escape.
Lord Jesus, was it then bound to be--Lord Jesus! He could feel the blow
descending, he knew he was murdered. Vaguely wandering forward, his
hands lifted as if to feel what would happen, he was waiting for the
moment when he would stop, when it would cease. It was not over yet.
He had come to the hollow basin of snow, surrounded by sheer slopes and
precipices, out of which rose a track that brought one to the top of
the mountain.
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