"He thinks to get to Italy," said the officer. "I did not imagine the
fool knew so much of geography. We have him now secure enough."

The officer who had been flung over Samson's head was now able to
hobble about, and he was exceedingly bitter. Shading his eyes and
gazing at the snow, he said--

"A good marksman ought to be able to bring him down."

"There is no need of that," replied his superior. "He cannot escape. We
have nothing to do but to wait for him. He will have to come down."

All of which was perfectly true.

A detachment crossed the stream and stacked its arms at the foot of the
mountain which Samson was trying to climb. There was a small level
place a few yards wide between the bottom of the hill and the bank of
the raging stream. On this bit of level ground the soldiers lay in the
sun and smoked, while the officers stood in a group and watched the
climbing man going steadily upward.

For a short distance up from the plateau there was stunted grass and
moss, with dark points of rock protruding from the scant soil. Above
that again was a breadth of dirty snow which, now that the sun was
strong, sent little trickling streams down to the river. From there to
the long ridge of the mountain extended upwards the vast smooth slope
of virgin snow, pure and white, sparkling in the strong sunlight as if
it had been sprinkled with diamond dust. A black speck against this
tremendous field of white, the giant struggled on, and they could see