In a few minutes the pall melted into an airy haze, and above me I saw the heavens shot with tremors of blue light.

Then the foreground began to clear, and there before me, with their heads still muffled in vapour, were the mountains.
Xenophon's Ten Thousand did not hail the sea more gladly than I welcomed those frowning ramparts of the Berg.
Once again my weariness was eased.

I cried to Colin, and together we ran down into the wide, shallow trough which lies at the foot of the hills.

As the sun rose above the horizon, the black masses changed to emerald and rich umber, and the fleecy mists of the summits opened and revealed beyond shining spaces of green.

Some lines of Shakespeare ran in my head, which I have always thought the most beautiful of all poetry: 'Night's candles are burned out, and jocund day Walks tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.' Up there among the clouds was my salvation.