This Terror Had Not Crossed My Mind, And I
Thought As Little Of It As I Could, Needing My Courage, And Being Near
To Breaking Down From The Intensity Of The Cold.
It seems that in a _tourmente_ (for by that excellent name do the
mountain people call such a storm) it is always a matter of doubt
whether to halt or go back.
If you go back through it and lose your
way, you are done for. If you halt in some shelter, it may go on for
two or three days, and then there is an end of you.
After a little he decided for a return, but he told me honestly what
the chances were, and my suffering from cold mercifully mitigated my
fear. But even in that moment, I felt in a confused but very conscious
way that I was defeated. I had crossed so many great hills and rivers,
and pressed so well on my undeviating arrow-line to Rome, and I had
charged this one great barrier manfully where the straight path of my
pilgrimage crossed the Alps - and I had failed! Even in that fearful
cold I felt it, and it ran through my doubt of return like another and
deeper current of pain. Italy was there, just above, right to my hand.
A lifting of a cloud, a little respite, and every downward step would
have been towards the sunlight. As it was, I was being driven back
northward, in retreat and ashamed.
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