"I gave up the idea of Eskdale when the sky clouded," Hawke replied, "and came straight across from the Pillar." "I wonder we did not meet before." Gordon was speaking at random, watching keenly for a chance; but Hawke still faced him, with his back to the rock. "Oh! I have been on the mountain for some time. You have only just come, I suppose." "I came with the mist." "It's a poor companion," Hawke resumed. "I found rather a good glissade just behind these cliffs running into Eskdale. I spent most of the afternoon on that. You ought to try it." "I will." "It lands you out close to Mickledoor and not far below the chimney. So I thought I would go home this way. But if I had known it was going to grow as cold and dark as this I would have seen myself damned first." "It is cold," Gordon assented, although his senses gave him no knowledge of the fact. He was wondering whether Hawke would ever move. If only he would set the lanthorn down! "Suppose that we move," he went on. "You have got the lanthorn, so you had better go first." He drew to one side as he spoke, and made room for Hawke to pass. But at the very moment that he was taking the step, Hawke suddenly placed the lanthorn on the ground, and cried-- "Wait a moment!" The next instant he stood upright, and that opportunity was gone. "I have got a bottle of brandy here," said Hawke. "We had better open it. Has your knife got a corkscrew?" Gordon thrust his hand quickly into his pocket and felt the sharp blade cut into his flesh. But he drew his hand out again empty, and said-- "I haven't got a knife at all. I left mine at home." "We must use mine, then, and knock the neck off. They have jammed the cork in so tightly, that there is no other way. Here! hold the bottle." Hawke handed him the bottle and searched in his pocket for his knife. He was perfectly defenceless at the moment, but the memory of Arkwright's accident had suddenly flashed upon Gordon and suggested to him a safer plan. He added another item to his supposed new knowledge. He understood now, he fancied, why the recollection of that night in the Alps had so persistently mingled with his thoughts yesterday, and he laughed gleefully. "What is the matter?" Hawke asked. "You seem pleased." "I am," he replied. "It is the brandy warming me through the cork." Hawke laughed. "It wasn't a bad suggestion, was it?" "It was the best I ever heard from you." Hawke found his knife and held it out to Gordon, saying-- "You had better do it! My fingers are so cursedly numbed, I should only cut myself or drop the bottle." Gordon took the knife with his right hand, and Hawke exclaimed-- "What on earth have you done to your hand? It is covered with blood." "Oh, it's nothing," Gordon answered quickly. "I cut it on a pointed piece of rock, that's all." For a moment he stood with the bottle poised in one hand and the knife in the other, thinking. Then he said--