At length he reached the snow-line where the path ended, and for the first time he looked back.  There I was some two hundred paces behind him.  I, his death, was behind him, and in front of him shone the snow.  For a moment he hesitated, and I heard the heavy breathing of his horse in the great stillness.  Then he turned and faced the slope, driving his spurs into the brute’s sides.  The snow was hard, for here the frost bit sharply, and for a while, though it was so steep, the horse travelled over it better than he had done along the pathway.  Now, as before, there was only one road that he could take, for we passed up the crest of a ridge, a pleat as it were in the garment of the mountain, and on either side were steeps of snow on which neither horse nor man might keep his footing.  For two hours or more we followed that ridge, and as we went through the silence of the haunted volcan, and the loneliness of its eternal snows, it seemed to me that my spirit entered into the spirit of my quarry, and that with its eyes I saw all that was passing in his heart.  To a man so wronged the dream was pleasant even if it were not true, for I read there such agony, such black despair, such haunting memories, such terror of advancing death and of what lay beyond it, that no revenge of man’s could surpass their torment.  And it was true—­I knew that it was true; he suffered all this and more, for if he had no conscience, at least he had fear and imagination to quicken and multiply the fear.

Now the snow grew steeper, and the horse was almost spent, for he could scarcely breathe at so great a height.  In vain did de Garcia drive his spurs into its sides, the gallant beast could do no more.  Suddenly it fell down.  Surely, I thought, he will await me now.  But even I had not fathomed the depth of his terrors, for de Garcia disengaged himself from the fallen horse, looked towards me, then fled forward on his feet, casting away his armour as he went that he might travel more lightly.

By this time we had passed the snow and were come to the edge of the ice cap that is made by the melting of the snow with the heat of the inner fires, or perhaps by that of the sun in hot seasons, I know not, and its freezing in the winter months or in the cold of the nights.  At least there is such a cap on Xaca, measuring nearly a mile in depth, which lies between the snow and the black rim of the crater.  Up this ice climbed de Garcia, and the task is not of the easiest, even for one of untroubled mind, for a man must step from crack to crack or needle to needle of rough ice, that stand upon the smooth surface like the bristles on a hog’s back, and woe to him if one break or if he slip, for then, as he falls, very shortly the flesh will be filed from his bones by the thousands of sword-like points over which he must pass in his descent towards the snow.  Indeed, many times I feared greatly lest this should chance to de Garcia, for I did not desire to lose my vengeance thus.  Therefore twice when I saw him in danger I shouted to him, telling him where to put his feet, for now I was within twenty paces of him, and, strange to say, he obeyed me without question, forgetting everything in his terror of instant death.  But for myself I had no fear, for I knew that I should not fall, though the place was one which I had surely shrunk from climbing at any other time.