Outside the guides wait, Joseph and Aloys, and away we tramp in single file along the little path that runs through fields full of wild flowers, drenched with dew, into a fairy-tale wood of tall, straight pine-trees.  We follow the steady, slow footsteps of Joseph, the chief guide, up the winding path that turns and twists, and turns again, but rises, always rises, until we are clear of the wood, past the rough, stony ground, and on to the snow, firm and hard to the feet before the sun has melted the night’s frost.  When we reach the rocks, and before we rope, Aloys removes his ruecksack and proceeds to lay out our luncheon; for if one breakfasts at two one is ready for the next meal at nine.  Crouched in strange attitudes, we munch cold chicken, rolls and hard-boiled eggs, sweet biscuits and apples, with great content.  Joseph has buried a bottle of white wine in the snow, and now pours some into a horn tumbler, which he hands to Mademoiselle with an air—­a draught of nectar.  It is John’s turn for the tumbler next, and as he emerges from the long, ice-cold, satisfying drink he declares his firm intention, his unalterable resolve, never to drink anything but white wine again in this world.  But doubtless as you know, the white wine of the Lowlands is not the white wine of the mountains.  It needs to be buried in the snow by Joseph, and drunk out of a horn tumbler, at the foot of an aiguille, after a six hours’ climb, to be at its best.  After refreshment comes the hard work.  To look at the face of the rock up which Joseph has swarmed; to say hopelessly, “I can’t do it, I can’t,” and then gradually to find here a niche for one hand, here a foothold; to learn to cling to the rock, to use every bit of oneself, to work one’s way up delicately as a cat so as not to send loose stones down on the climber below, until, panting, one lands on the ledge appointed by Joseph, there to rest while the next man climbs, it is the best of sports.  And at the top to stand in the “stainless eminence of air,” to look down eight—­ten—­a thousand feet to the toy village at the foot while John names all the other angel peaks that soar round us, tell me, you who are also a climber, is it not very good?

But the coming down!  Stumbling wearily down the steep paths of the pine-woods with the skin rubbed off one’s toes, and giving at the knees like an old and feeble horse, that is not so good.  And yet—­I don’t know.  For as we near the valley, puffs of hot, scented air come up to meet us, the tinkle of the cow-bell greets our ears, and we realize that it is only given to those who have braved the perils, who have searched for the deep things of the ancient mountains and found out the precious things of the lasting hills, to thoroughly appreciate the pleasant, homely quietness of the meadow-lands.

But I have wandered miles away from Sunday morning in Darjeeling.

It was still misty when we went out after breakfast, but not so solidly misty, so Boggley held out hopes it would clear.