in a deep valley, where we were protected from the wind. In this profound
depression a kind of twilight prevailed, for the sun, which we had
glimpsed when we were on the level of the peaks, was at least thirty
degrees below our present horizon. Henry having recovered his nerve, we
all got out of the car, unloosed the natives, and began to look about us.

The scene was more disheartening than ever. All about towered the crystal
mountains, their bases leaden-hued and formless in the ghostly gloom,
while their middle parts showed deep gleams of ultramarine, brightening
to purple higher up, and a few aspiring peaks behind us sparkled
brilliantly where the sunlight touched them. It was such a spectacle as
the imagination could not have conceived, and I have often tried in vain
to reproduce it satisfactorily in my own mind.

Was there ever such a situation as ours? Cast away in a place wild and
wonderful beyond description, millions of miles from all human aid and
sympathy, millions of miles from the world that had given us birth! I
could, in bitterness of spirit, have laughed at the suggestion that there
was any hope for us. And yet, at that very moment, not only was there
hope, but there was even the certainty of deliverance. But, unknown to
us, it lay in the brain of the incomparable man who had brought us
hither.

I have told you that it was twilight in the valley where we lay. But
when, as frequently happened, tempests of snow burst over the mountains,
and choked the air about us, the twilight turned to deepest night, and we
had to illumine the lamps in the car. By great good fortune, Edmund said,
enough power remained to furnish us with light and heat, and now I looked
upon those mysterious black-tusked muzzles in the car with a new
sentiment, praying that they would not turn to mouths of death.