At last
he came to the great shallow among the precipices and slopes, near the
summit of the pass. It was a grey day, the third day of greyness and
stillness. All was white, icy, pallid, save for the scoring of black
rocks that jutted like roots sometimes, and sometimes were in naked
faces. In the distance a slope sheered down from a peak, with many
black rock-slides.
It was like a shallow pot lying among the stone and snow of the upper
world. In this pot Gerald had gone to sleep. At the far end, the guides
had driven iron stakes deep into the snow-wall, so that, by means of
the great rope attached, they could haul themselves up the massive
snow-front, out on to the jagged summit of the pass, naked to heaven,
where the Marienhutte hid among the naked rocks. Round about, spiked,
slashed snow-peaks pricked the heaven.
Gerald might have found this rope. He might have hauled himself up to
the crest. He might have heard the dogs in the Marienhutte, and found
shelter. He might have gone on, down the steep, steep fall of the
south-side, down into the dark valley with its pines, on to the great
Imperial road leading south to Italy.
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