The sun was shining feebly and glinting over the frost.

It had sparkled among the icicles that hung in Styx Ghyll as he passed, and the ravine had been hard to cross.

The hardy black sheep of the mountains bleated in the cold from unseen places, and the wind carried their call away until it died off into a moan.
When Ralph got well within the shadow cast on to the fell from the protruding head of the Castle Rock, he paused and looked about him.
Yes, he was somewhat too high.

He began to descend.

The rock's head sheltered him from the wind now, and in the silence he could hear the thud of a pick or hammer, and then the indistinct murmur of a man's voice singing.