On over the Black precipice. Then along the rocks to the top of the Staircase; slowly across the little dip in the shoulder, to the Four Spots, with a vague eye on the upper ledges. Now he was looking northeast. He pulled off his cap, letting the north wind lift his hair. Today low strata of opalescent clouds lay banking the horizon and the softest fairy haze lightly veiled the landscape, giving it a spiritual and unsubstantial beauty like a dream-country. The world looked transparent. In the low-lying clouds were all the tints of mother-of-pearl and the sky above was of blurred English blue, not glory-giving Italian azure. It was a landscape in which the Mountain-Lover particularly delighted—though he smiled as he thought the words, since whatever aspect offered itself, he was apt to think it was one which especially charmed him.
Up above, in the last stretch of the Red Cross trail, nearly under the peak, a scarlet-sweatered climber made a vivid blotch of color. Below fell the Dingle Dell trail with
