He had been toiling under the noontide heat up the narrow defile which led from Grassenfel to Tordale. He had grown weary of the way, of the rough path, of the rugged scenery. He had looked to his right hand and to his left, and behold on the one side stormy Skillanscar met his view, whilst on the other the peaks of Helbeck rose towering to the summer sky. He had looked straightforward, and there were mountains still—mountains that seemed to hem him in, and make him a prisoner in their rocky fastnesses.…
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