They came, at length, to the poor little town of Brieg, at the foot of the Simplon.  They came there after dark, but yet could see how dwarfed men’s works and men became with the immense mountains towering over them.  Here they must lie for the night; and here was warmth of fire, and lamp, and dinner, and wine, and after-conference resounding, with guides and drivers.  No human creature had come across the Pass for four days.  The snow above the snow-line was too soft for wheeled carriage, and not hard enough for sledge.  There was snow in the sky.  There had been snow in the sky for days past, and the marvel was that it had not fallen, and the certainty was that it must fall.  No vehicle could cross.  The journey might be tried on mules, or it might be tried on foot; but the best guides must be paid danger-price in either case, and that, too, whether they succeeded in taking the two travellers across, or turned for safety and brought them back.

In this discussion, Obenreizer bore no part whatever.  He sat silently smoking by the fire until the room was cleared and Vendale referred to him.

“Bah!  I am weary of these poor devils and their trade,” he said, in reply.  “Always the same story.  It is the story of their trade to-day, as it was the story of their trade when I was a ragged boy.  What do you and I want?  We want a knapsack each, and a mountain-staff each.  We want no guide; we should guide him; he would not guide us.  We leave our portmanteaus here, and we cross together.  We have been on the mountains together before now, and I am mountain-born, and I know this Pass—­Pass!—­rather High Road!—­by heart.  We will leave these poor devils, in pity, to trade with others; but they must not delay us to make a pretence of earning money.  Which is all they mean.”

Vendale, glad to be quit of the dispute, and to cut the knot:  active, adventurous, bent on getting forward, and therefore very susceptible to the last hint:  readily assented.  Within two hours, they had purchased what they wanted for the expedition, had packed their knapsacks, and lay down to sleep.

At break of day, they found half the town collected in the narrow street to see them depart.  The people talked together in groups; the guides and drivers whispered apart, and looked up at the sky; no one wished them a good journey.

As they began the ascent, a gleam of run shone from the otherwise unaltered sky, and for a moment turned the tin spires of the town to silver.

“A good omen!” said Vendale (though it died out while he spoke).  “Perhaps our example will open the Pass on this side.”

“No; we shall not be followed,” returned Obenreizer, looking up at the sky and back at the valley.  “We shall be alone up yonder.”

ON THE MOUNTAIN