The road was fair enough for stout walkers, and the air grew lighter and easier to breathe as the two ascended.  But the settled gloom remained as it had remained for days back.  Nature seemed to have come to a pause.  The sense of hearing, no less than the sense of sight, was troubled by having to wait so long for the change, whatever it might be, that impended.  The silence was as palpable and heavy as the lowering clouds—­or rather cloud, for there seemed to be but one in all the sky, and that one covering the whole of it.

Although the light was thus dismally shrouded, the prospect was not obscured.  Down in the valley of the Rhone behind them, the stream could be traced through all its many windings, oppressively sombre and solemn in its one leaden hue, a colourless waste.  Far and high above them, glaciers and suspended avalanches overhung the spots where they must pass, by-and-by; deep and dark below them on their right, were awful precipice and roaring torrent; tremendous mountains arose in every vista.  The gigantic landscape, uncheered by a touch of changing light or a solitary ray of sun, was yet terribly distinct in its ferocity.  The hearts of two lonely men might shrink a little, if they had to win their way for miles and hours among a legion of silent and motionless men—­mere men like themselves—­all looking at them with fixed and frowning front.  But how much more, when the legion is of Nature’s mightiest works, and the frown may turn to fury in an instant!

As they ascended, the road became gradually more rugged and difficult.  But the spirits of Vendale rose as they mounted higher, leaving so much more of the road behind them conquered.  Obenreizer spoke little, and held on with a determined purpose.  Both, in respect of agility and endurance, were well qualified for the expedition.  Whatever the born mountaineer read in the weather-tokens that was illegible to the other, he kept to himself.

“Shall we get across to-day?” asked Vendale.

“No,” replied the other.  “You see how much deeper the snow lies here than it lay half a league lower.  The higher we mount the deeper the snow will lie.  Walking is half wading even now.  And the days are so short!  If we get as high as the fifth Refuge, and lie to-night at the Hospice, we shall do well.”

“Is there no danger of the weather rising in the night,” asked Vendale, anxiously, “and snowing us up?”

“There is danger enough about us,” said Obenreizer, with a cautious glance onward and upward, “to render silence our best policy.  You have heard of the Bridge of the Ganther?”

“I have crossed it once.”

“In the summer?”

“Yes; in the travelling season.”

“Yes; but it is another thing at this season;” with a sneer, as though he were out of temper.  “This is not a time of year, or a state of things, on an Alpine Pass, that you gentlemen holiday-travellers know much about.”