The mountains were indifferent.

As they endured success, so they inflicted defeat--with a sublime indifference, lifting their foreheads to the stars as though wrapt in some high communion.
Something of their patience had entered into Garratt Skinner.

He did not deny his name, he asked no question, he accepted failure and he looked anxiously to the sky.
"It will snow, I think." They made some tea, mixed it with wine and gave it first of all to Walter Hine.

Then they all breakfasted, and set off on their homeward journey, letting Hine down with the rope from step to step.
Gradually Hine regained a little strength.

His numbed limbs began to come painfully to life.