“You leave me,” he whispered once.  “You have been a good friend to me.  You can do no more.  Just leave me here, and save yourself.”

Garratt Skinner made no answer.  He just looked at Hine curiously—­that was all.  That was all.  It was a curious thing to him that Hine should display an unexpected manliness—­almost a heroism.  It could not be pleasant even to contemplate being left alone upon these windy and sunless heights to die.  But actually to wish it!

“How did you come by so much fortitude?” he asked; and to his astonishment, Walter Hine replied: 

“I learnt it from you, old man.”

“From me?”

“Yes.”

Garratt Skinner gave him some of the brandy and listened to a portrait of himself, described in broken words, which he was at some pains to recognize.  Walter Hine had been seeking to model himself upon an imaginary Garratt Skinner, and thus, strangely enough, had arrived at an actual heroism.  Thus would Garratt Skinner have bidden his friends leave him, only in tones less tremulous, and very likely with a laugh, turning back, as it were, to snap his fingers as he stepped out of the world.  Thus, therefore, Walter Hine sought to bear himself.

“Curious,” said Garratt Skinner with interest, but with no stronger feeling at all.  “Are you in pain, Wallie?”

“Dreadful pain.”

“We must wait.  Perhaps help will come!”

The day wore on, but what the time was Garratt Skinner could not tell.  His watch and Hine’s had both stopped with the cold, and the dull, clouded sky gave him no clue.  The last of the food was eaten, the last drop of the brandy drunk.  It was bitterly cold.  If only the snow would hold off till morning!  Garratt Skinner had only to wait.  The night would come and during the night Walter Hine would die.  And even while the thought was in his mind, he heard voices.  To his amazement, to his alarm, he heard voices!  Then he laughed.  He was growing light-headed.  Exhaustion, cold and hunger were telling their tale upon him.  He was not so young as he had been twenty years before.  But to make sure he rose to his knees and peered down the slope.  He had been mistaken.  The steep snow-slopes stretched downward, wild and empty.  Here and there black rocks jutted from them; a long way down four black stones were spaced; there was no living thing in that solitude.  He sank back relieved.  No living thing except himself, and perhaps his companion.  He looked at Hine closely, shook him, and Hine groaned.  Yes, he still lived—­for a little time he still would live.  Garratt Skinner gathered in his numbed palm the last pipeful of tobacco in his pouch and, spilling the half of it—­his hands so shook with cold, his fingers were so clumsy—­he pressed it into his pipe and lit it.  Perhaps before it was all smoked out—­he thought.  And then his hallucination returned to him.  Again he heard voices, very faint, and distant, in a lull of the wind.