He peered forth into
the thick darkness of the dropping night, shading his eyes against the
streaming pane to screen the firelight in an attempt to see if another
climber--perhaps a climber in distress--were visible. The surroundings
were desolate and savage, well named the Devil's Saddle. Black-faced
precipices, streaked with melting snow, rose towering to the north,
where the heights were hidden in seas of vapour; waterfalls poured into
abysses on two sides; a wall of impenetrable forest pressed up from the
south; and the dangerous ridge he had climbed all day slid off wickedly
into a sky of surging cloud. But no human figure was, of course,
distinguishable, for both the lateness of the hour and the elemental
fury of the night rendered it most unlikely. He turned away with a
start, as the tempest delivered a blow with massive impact against his
very face. Then, clearing the remnants of his frugal supper from the
table, he hung his soaking clothes at a new angle before the fire,
made sure the door was fastened on the inside, climbed into the bunk
where white pillows and thick Austrian blankets looked so inviting, and
prepared finally for sleep. "I must be over-tired," he sighed, after half an hour's weary tossing,
and went back to make up the sinking fire. Wood is plentiful in these
climbers' huts; he heaped it on. But this time he lit the little oil
lamp as well, realising--though unwilling to acknowledge it--that it
was not over-fatigue that banished sleep, but this unwelcome sense of
expecting some one, of being not quite alone. For the feeling persisted
and increased. He drew the wooden bench close up to the fire, turned
the lamp as high as it would go, and wished unaccountably for the
morning. Light was a very pleasant thing; and darkness now, for the
first time since childhood, troubled him. It was outside; but it might
so easily come in and swamp, obliterate, extinguish. The darkness
seemed a positive thing. Already, somehow, it was established in his
mind--this sense of enormous, aggressive darkness that veiled an
undesirable hint of personality. Some shadow from the peaks or from
the forest, immense and threatening, pervaded all his thought. "This
can't be entirely nerves," he whispered to himself. "I'm not so tired
as all that!" And he made the fire roar. He shivered and drew closer to
the blaze. "I'm out of condition; that's part of it," he realised, and
remembered with loathing the weeks of luxurious indulgence just behind
him. For Delane had rather wasted his year of educational travel. Straight
from Oxford, and well supplied with money, he had first saturated
his mind in the latest Continental thought--the science of France,
the metaphysics and philosophy of Germany--and had then been caught
aside by the gaiety of capitals where the lights are not turned out at
midnight by a Sunday School police. He had been surfeited, physically,
emotionally, and intellectually, till his mind and body longed hungrily
for simple living again and simple teaching--above all, the latter. The
Road of Excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom--for certain temperaments
(as Blake forgot to add), of which Delane was one. For there was stuff
in the youth, and the reaction had set in with violent abruptness. His
system rebelled. He cut loose energetically from all soft delights,
and craved for severity, pure air, solitude and hardship. Clean and
simple conditions he must have without delay, and the tonic of physical
battling. It was too early in the year to climb seriously, for the snow
was still dangerous and the weather wild, but he had chosen this most
isolated of all the mountain huts in order to make sure of solitude,
and had come, without guide or companion, for a week's strenuous life
in wild surroundings, and to take stock of himself with a view to full
recovery. And all day long as he climbed the desolate, unsafe ridge, his
mind--good, wholesome, natural symptom--had reverted to his childhood
days, to the solid worldly wisdom of his church-going father, and
to the early teaching (oh, how sweet and refreshing in its literal
spirit!) at his mother's knee. Now, as he watched the blazing logs,
it came back to him again with redoubled force; the simple, precious,
old-world stories of heaven and hell, of a paternal Deity, and of a
daring, subtle, personal devil----

The interruption to his thoughts came with startling suddenness, as the
roaring night descended against the windows with a thundering violence
that shook the walls and sucked the flame half-way up the wide stone
chimney. The oil lamp flickered and went out. Darkness invaded the
room for a second, and Delane sprang from his bench, thinking the wet
snow had loosened far above and was about to sweep the hut into the
depths. And he was still standing, trembling and uncertain, in the
middle of the room, when a deep and sighing hush followed sharp upon
the elemental outburst, and in the hush, like a whisper after thunder,
he heard a curious steady sound that, at first, he thought must be a
footstep by the door. It was then instantly repeated. But it was not
a step. It was some one knocking on the heavy oaken panels--a firm,
authoritative sound, as though the new arrival had the right to enter
and was already impatient at the delay. The Englishman recovered himself instantly, realising with keen relief
the new arrival--at last. "Another climber like myself, of course," he said, "or perhaps the man
who comes to prepare the hut for others. The season has begun." And he
went over quickly, without a further qualm, to unbolt the door. "Forgive!" he exclaimed in German, as he threw it wide, "I was half
asleep before the fire. It is a terrible night. Come in to food and
shelter, for both are here, and you shall share such supper as I
possess." And a tall, cloaked figure passed him swiftly with a gust of angry
wind from the impenetrable blackness of the world beyond. On the
threshold, for a second, his outline stood full in the blaze of
firelight with the sheet of darkness behind it, stately, erect,
commanding, his cloak torn fiercely by the wind, but the face hidden by
a low-brimmed hat; and an instant later the door shut with resounding
clamour upon the hurricane, and the two men turned to confront one
another in the little room. Delane then realised two things sharply, both of them fleeting
impressions, but acutely vivid: First, that the outside darkness seemed
to have entered and established itself between him and the new arrival;
and, secondly, that the stranger's face was difficult to focus for
clear sight, although the covering hat was now removed. There was a
blur upon it somewhere. And this the Englishman ascribed partly to
the flickering effect of firelight, and partly to the lightning glare
of the man's masterful and terrific eyes, which made his own sight
waver in some curious fashion as he gazed upon him.