by Bret Harte
CHAPTER IV.
NATURE SHOWS THEM THE WAY.
It was a spur of the long grave-like ridge that lay to the north of theca[~n]on. Up its gaunt white flank two figures had been slowly crawlingsince noon, until at sunset they at last stood upon its outer vergeoutlined against the sky--Philip and Grace.
For all the fatigues of the journey, the want of nourishing food and thehaunting shadow of the suffering she had left, the face of Grace,flushed with the dying sun, was very pretty. The boy's dress she hadborrowed was ill-fitting, and made her exquisite little figure stillmore diminutive, but it could not entirely hide its graceful curves.Here in this rosy light the swooning fringes of her dark eyes were nolonger hidden; the perfect oval of her face, even the few freckles onher short upper lip, were visible to Philip. Partly as a physicalsupport, partly to reassure her, he put his arm tenderly around herwaist. Then he kissed her. It is possible that this last act was purelygratuitous.
Howbeit Grace first asked, with the characteristic prudence of her sex,the question she had already asked many days before that day, "Do youlove me, Philip?" And Philip, with the ready frankness of our sex onsuch occasions, had invariably replied, "I do."
Nevertheless the young man was pre-occupied, anxious, and hungry. Itwas the fourth day since they had left the hut. On the second day theyhad found some pine cones with the nuts still intact and fresh beneaththe snow, and later a squirrel's hoard. On the third day Philip hadkilled the proprietor and eaten him. The same evening Philip had espieda duck winging his way up the ca[~n]on. Philip, strong in the belief thatsome inland lake was the immediate object of its flight, had firstmarked its course, and then brought it down with a long shot. Thenhaving altered their course in accordance with it suggestion, they atetheir guide next morning for breakfast.
Philip was also disappointed. The summit of the spur so laboriouslyattained only showed him the same endless succession of white snowbillows stretching rigidly to the horizon's edge. There was no break--noglimpse of watercourse or lake. There was nothing to indicate whence thebird had come or the probable point it was endeavouring to reach. He wasbeginning to consider the feasibility of again changing their course,when an unlooked-for accident took that volition from his hands.
Grace had ventured out to the extreme limit of the rocky cliff, and withstraining eyes was trying to peer beyond the snow fields, when thetreacherous ledge on which she was standing began to give way. In aninstant Philip was at her side and had caught her hand, but at the samemoment a large rock of the ledge dropped from beneath her feet, and lefther with no support but his grasp. The sudden shock loosened also theinsecure granite on which Philip stood. Before he could gain securefoothold it also trembled, tottered, slipped, and then fell, carryingPhilip and Grace with it. Luckily this immense mass of stone and ice gotfairly away before them, and ploughed down the steep bank of the cliff,breaking off the projecting rocks and protuberances, and cutting aclean, though almost perpendicular, path down the mountain side. Evenin falling Philip had presence of mind enough to forbear clutching atthe crumbling ledge, and so precipitating the rock that might crushthem. Before he lost his senses he remembered tightening his grip ofGrace's arm, and drawing her face and head forward to his breast, andeven in his unconsciousness it seemed that he instinctively guided herinto the smooth passage or "shoot" made by the plunging rock below them;and even then he was half conscious of dashing into sudden materialdarkness and out again into light, and of the crashing and crackling ofbranches around him, and even the brushing of the stiff pine needlesagainst his face and limbs. Then he felt himself stopped, and then, andthen only, everything whirled confusedly by him, and his brain seemed topartake of the motion, and then--the relief of utter blankness andoblivion. When he regained his senses, it was with a burning heat in histhroat, and the sensation of strangling. When he opened his eyes he sawGrace bending over him, pale and anxious, and chafing his hands andtemples with snow. There was a spot of blood upon her round cheek.
"You are hurt, Grace!" were the first words that Philip gasped.
"No!--dear, brave Philip--but only so thankful and happy for yourescape." Yet, at the same moment the colour faded from her cheek, andeven the sun-kissed line of her upper lip grew bloodless, as she leanedback against a tree.
But Philip did not see her. His eyes were rapidly taking in his strangesurroundings. He was lying among the broken fragments of pine branchesand the d['e]bris of the cliff above. In his ears was the sound of hurryingwater, and before him, scarce a hundred feet, a rushing river! He lookedup; the red glow of sunset was streaming through the broken limbs andshattered branches of the snow-thatched roof that he had broken throughin his descent. Here and there along the river the same light waspenetrating the interstices and openings of this strange vault thatarched above this sunless stream.
He knew now whence the duck had flown! He knew now why he had not seenthe watercourse before! He knew now where the birds and beasts hadbetaken themselves--why the woods and ca[~n]ons were trackless! Here was atlast the open road! He staggered to his feet with a cry of delight.
"Grace, we are saved."
Grace looked at him with eyes that perhaps spoke more eloquently of joyat his recovery than of comprehension of his delight.
"Look, Grace! this is Nature's own road--only a lane, perhaps--but aclue to our way out of this wilderness. As we descend the stream it willopen into a broader valley."
"I know it," she said, simply.
Philip looked at her inquiringly.
"When I dragged you out of the way of the falling rocks and snow above,I had a glimpse of the valley you speak of. I saw it from there."
She pointed to a ledge of rock above the opening where the great stonethat had fallen had lodged.
"When you dragged me, my child?"
Grace smiled faintly.
"You don't know how strong I am," she said, and then proved it byfainting dead away.
Philip started to his feet and ran to her side. Then he felt for theprecious flask that he had preserved so sacredly through all theirhardships, but it was gone. He glanced around him; it was lying on thesnow, empty! For the first time in their weary pilgrimage Philip uttereda groan. At the sound Grace opened her sweet eyes. She saw her loverwith the empty flask in his hand, and smiled faintly.
"I poured it all down your throat, dear," she said. "You looked sofaint--I thought you were dying--forgive me!"
"But I was only stunned; and you, Grace, you"----
"Am better now," she said, as she strove to rise. But she uttered a weaklittle cry and fell back again.
Philip did not hear her. He was already climbing the ledge she hadspoken of. When he returned his face was joyous.
"I see it, Grace; it is only a few miles away. It is still light, and weshall camp there to-night."
"I am afraid--not--dear Philip," said Grace, doubtfully.
"Why not?" asked Philip, a little impatiently.
"Because--I--think--my leg is broken!"
"Grace!"
But she had fainted.