This operation is a difficult and not very graceful one. Sylvia is escorted safely to the top, and then my turn comes—for Mrs. Cardigan declines to venture. I am hoisted up to Charley—words fail me to speak of the height of the steps which one is told to take, and the manner in which the muscles of one’s arms are tested in this kind of climbing—then Eric receives me in charge. [Illustration: “‘Let me go!’”] “I have only one thing to say,” he remarks, before we start, “don’t be afraid! If you were to faint, I’d carry you safely to the top.” This is reassuring—as is also the firm grasp on my arm, the steady hand controlling the rope. But rocks—especially when they are shelving—are very slippery, and I have a slightly giddy feeling in attempting to crawl like a spider across the side of one, with only a rope to cling to if my foot should slip. Eric does all, and more than all, that he promised, however. I, too, am conveyed safely to the top, and deposited in a breathless condition on a rock which it is a comfort to feel is _flat_. There is some further—but not very difficult—climbing, and then we stand on the summit of the Castle, with the mountain shelving downward, a sea of verdure at our feet, and an extensive view toward the east, which would be beautiful in a clearer light. Now the shades of evening have fallen, and the outlines of the distant scene have grown indistinct. Nevertheless, our guide points at once northeast. “There is the Black!” he says. Truly enough, there it is—the outlines of its mighty shoulders clearly defined, though a cloud, as usual, wraps its head. “That is the same cloud we left there,” says Charley, who has by this time followed us. Rupert—who accompanied Eric in the first ascent—was already on the top when we reached it; the rest of the party now appear, with the exception of Mrs. Cardigan and Mr. Lanier, who remain below. Over the peak behind us, brilliant masses of sunset clouds float—clouds which make Sylvia almost regret that she did not remain for this sweet vesper of the dying day—while the soft, purple veil of twilight covers like a mantle the wide expanse which we overlook. “Oh,” says Sylvia, turning to Charley, “this is surely better than if you had ‘jumped’ a deer!” CHAPTER XV. “Love to the mountains led his sheep, Once on a summer day, Into a valley green and deep, Under rock-ramparts gray; “Sat on a stone where the waters run Rippling the hours away, Touched his lute in the light of the sun— That was a summer day.” We return to the hotel through the soft, starlit dusk, and find that the company has changed during our absence. Several newcomers have arrived, Mr. Charlton has taken his departure. “He has an attraction at Cæsar’s Head,” observes Mr. Brandon, when Mrs. Cardigan remarks this fact. “Miss Tyrrell is there—you know her, Markham. She is an uncommonly nice girl.”