The face of the earth grew confused and dropped in a mist
from before his eyes.
Then as they toiled still upward, a gale as though sent in anger rushed
down upon them, sweeping up whirlwinds of snow, raging and shrieking,
dragging them to the brink, and threatening to blot them out.
Frawley clutched the saddle, then flung his arms about the neck of his
mule. His head was reeling, the indignant blood rushed to his nostrils
and his ears, his lungs no longer could master the divine air. Then
suddenly the mules stopped, exhausted. Through the maelstrom the guide
shrieked to him not to use the spur. Frawley felt himself in danger of
dying, and had no resentment.
For a day they affronted the immense wilds until they had forced
themselves thousands of feet above the race of men. Then they began to
descend.
Below them the clouds lapped and rolled like the elements before the
creation. Still they descended, and the moist oblivion closed about
them, like the curse of a world without color. The bleak mists separated
and began to roll up above them, a cloud split asunder, and through the
slit the earth jumped up, and the solid land spread before them as when
at the dawn it obeyed the will of the Creator.
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