Pierce Phillips breasted the last rise to the Summit, slipped his pack-straps, and flung himself full length upon the ground.  His lungs felt as if they were bursting, the blood surged through his veins until he rocked, his body streamed with sweat, and his legs were as heavy as if molded from solid iron.  He was pumped out, winded; nevertheless, he felt his strength return with magic swiftness, for he possessed that marvelous recuperative power of youth, and, like some fabled warrior, new strength flowed into him from the earth.  Round about him other men were sprawled; some lay like corpses, others were propped against their packs, a few stirred and sighed like the sorely wounded after a charge.  Those who had lain longest rose, took up their burdens, and went groaning over the sky-line and out of sight.  Every moment new faces, purple with effort or white with exhaustion, rose out of the depths—­all were bitten deep with lines of physical suffering.  On buckled knees their owners lurched forward to find resting-places; in their eyes burned a sullen rage; in their mouths were foul curses at this Devil’s Stairway.  There were striplings and graybeards in the crowd, strong men and weak men, but here at the Summit all were alike in one particular—­they lacked breath for anything except oaths.

Here, too, as in the valley beneath, was another great depot of provision piles.  Near where Phillips had thrown himself down there was one man whose bearing was in marked contrast to that of the others.  He sat astride a bulging canvas bag in a leather harness, and in spite of the fact that the mark of a tump-line showed beneath his cap he betrayed no signs of fatigue.  He was not at all exhausted, and from the interest he displayed it seemed that he had chosen this spot as a vantage-point from which to study the upcoming file rather than as a place in which to rest.  This he did with a quick, appreciative eye and with a genial smile.  In face, in dress, in manner, he was different.  For one thing, he was of foreign birth, and yet he appeared to be more a piece of the country than any man Pierce had seen.  His clothes were of a pattern common among the native packers, but he wore them with a free, unconscious grace all his own.  From the peak of his Canadian toque there depended a tassel which bobbed when he talked; his boots were of Indian make, and they were soft and light and waterproof; a sash of several colors was knotted about his waist.  But it was not alone his dress which challenged the eye—­there was something in this fellow’s easy, open bearing which arrested attention.  His dark skin had been deepened by windburn, his well-set, well-shaped head bore a countenance both eager and intelligent, a countenance that fairly glowed with confidence and good humor.

Oddly enough, he sang as he sat upon his pack.  High up on this hillside, amid blasphemous complaints, he hummed a gay little song: 

       “Chante, rossignol, chante! 
        Toi qui a le coeur gai! 
        Tu as le coeur a rire
        Mai j’l’ai-t-a pleurer,”