Weston was also very hungry, and after beating his numbed hands he thrust them inside his deerskin jacket.
They had probably reached no great height, but summer was only commencing, and it was evidently freezing.

Indeed, the nights had been cold enough when he lay well wrapped up in the sheltered valley.
Still, the mist, at least, climbed no higher.

The stars were twinkling frostily, and opposite him across the valley a great gray-white rampart ran far up into the dusky blue.

He watched it for a while, and then it seemed to grow indistinct and hazy, and when some time afterward he opened his eyes again he saw that there was no mist about the slopes beneath.
Then, as he looked about him, stiff with cold, he noticed that a half-moon had sailed up above the peaks.

Its elusive light lay upon the slope, but ledge and stone seemed less distinct than their shadows, which were black as ebony.