"You'll spin us a long yarn about them another night, Shon"? said the
Honourable.

"I'll do it now--a yarn as long as the lies of the Government; and proud
of the chance."

"Not to-night, Shon" (there was a kind of huskiness in the voice of the
Honourable); "it's time to turn in. We've a long tramp over the glacier
to-morrow, and we must start at sunrise."

The Honourable was in command of the party, though Jo Gordineer was the
guide, and all were, for the moment, miners, making for the little Goshen
Field over in Pipi Valley.--At least Pretty Pierre said he was a miner.

No one thought of disputing the authority of the Honourable, and they all
rose.

In a few minutes there was silence in the hut, save for the oracular
breathing of Prince Levis and the sparks from the fire. But the
Honourable did not sleep well; he lay and watched the fire through most
of the night.

The day was clear, glowing, decisive. Not a cloud in the curve of azure,
not a shiver of wind down the canon, not a frown in Nature, if we except
the lowering shadows from the shoulders of the giants of the range.
Crowning the shadows was a splendid helmet of light, rich with the dyes
of the morning; the pines were touched with a brilliant if austere
warmth. The pride of lofty lineage and severe isolation was regnant over
all. And up through the splendour, and the shadows, and the loneliness,
and the austere warmth, must our travellers go. Must go? Scarcely that,