Hobbling painfully, he began the ascent in front of the strolling
Englishman. The path ran steeply up between close-growing shrubs,
following the winding of the torrent far below. In places the hillside
was precipitous and the roar of the stream rose louder as it dashed
among its rocks. The heavy scent of the azalea flowers hung like incense
everywhere, mingling aromatically with the smoke from Dacre's newly
lighted cigar.

With his hands in his pockets he followed his guide with long, easy
strides. The ascent was nothing to him, and the other's halting progress
brought a smile of contemptuous pity to his lips. What did the old
rascal expect to gain from the interview he wondered?

Up and up the narrow path they went, till at length a small natural
platform in the shoulder of the hill was reached, and here the ragged
creature in front of Dacre paused and turned.

The moonlight smote full upon him, revealing him in every repulsive
detail. His eyes burned in their red-rimmed sockets as he lifted them.
But he did not speak even after the careless saunter of the Englishman
had ceased at his side. The dash of the stream far below rose up like
the muffled roar of a train in a tunnel. The bed of it was very narrow
at that point and the current swift.

For a moment or two Dacre stood waiting, the cigar still between his
lips, his eyes upon the gleaming caps of the snow-hills far away. But
very soon the spell of them fell from him. It was not his nature to
remain silent for long.