“The cave is about fifty yards down the side of the peak,” says Eric. “Burnet has taken the pack-horse there to unload. As soon as you are rested sufficiently, we had better follow. We can take dinner, and then return here for the view.” Does anyone wonder that we rise with alacrity at the sound of that magic word “dinner?” If so, he or she never made a mountain ascent of six hours in an atmosphere that sharpens the appetite to that positive hunger which in ordinary life we so seldom feel. Down a path on the other side of the peak we go, and, about fifty yards from the summit, are led to a large rock, one side of which shelves inward to the depth of ten or twelve feet, forming an excellent shelter. “This was the royal residence of the king of the bears in the good old times when there were no men on these mountains,” says Rupert, as we approach. (He is on his knees, assisting Harrison to unpack the provisions.) “It serves admirably for bears, but is rather low for people.” [Illustration: In the Cave.] “For giants like yourself, very likely,” says Sylvia. “I can stand upright in it, quite far back, very comfortably—see!” “And when one sits down it is admirable,” says Mrs. Cardigan, suiting the action to the word and sitting down on a shawl which Mr. Lanier has spread for her. “Here is a natural cupboard,” I say, examining a ledge of rocks that juts out on one side. “I doubt whether we shall leave any thing to go into it,” says Charley. “I am famished!” “Spread the table quicker, Harrison!” cries Sylvia. “Eric, carve the ham while I cut some bread.” The table is spread—to wit, a miscellaneous collection of eatables are placed on a piece of black oil-cloth—and dinner begins. For some time no other remarks are heard than those which are strictly necessary. Requests are made for bread-and-butter, for another piece of ham or chicken, for pickles or sardines; beyond this, little is said until we look at each other and laugh. By this time the feast is drawing to its close. Canned fruits, cakes, and jelly are on the table; Charley is opening a bottle of wine. “Fate cannot harm us, we have dined to-day,” says Sylvia. “Oh, were you _ever_ so hungry before? I only hope we have left enough for breakfast: we cannot afford to eat any supper.” “Can’t we?” says Rupert, looking dismayed. “Why, I think there’s plenty left. We’ll have some coffee, at any rate. As soon as Burnet comes back—he has taken the pack-horse down to the others—we are going to make a fire.” “If the wind should be in the wrong direction, we shall suffer dreadfully from the smoke,” says Mr. Lanier, looking at the great pile of charred logs immediately in front of our rock-house—remnants of the fire of some other party. “Better suffer from smoke than from cold,” says Eric. “You’ll be glad of the fire when night falls; and, in order that you may have it, we must go to work and cut wood enough to last till morning.”