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Night was imperceptibly sifting down upon all this whiteness, that seemed as if it would not be obscured, as if it held within itself some property of luminosity, when Millicent, a white apron tied over her golden head, improvising a hood, its superfluous fulness gathered in many folds and pleats around her neck, fichu-wise, stood beside the ice-draped fodder-stack and essayed with half-numbed hands to insert a tallow dip into the socket of a lantern, all incrusted and clumsy with previous drippings.
We march southwards up on to the Pamir, following a narrow valley where a foaming stream tumbles over ice-draped boulders. We cross it by narrow, shaking bridges of timber which look like matches when we gaze down on them in the valley bottom from the slopes above. It thaws in the sun, but freezes at night, and our path is like a channel of ice running along the edge of a vertical precipice.
At last, one afternoon, David managed to cross the Bottom at a point where a fallen thorn-tree gave him a bridge over the soft snow. He stayed but a little while at Kenmuir, yet when he started for home it was snowing again. By the time he had crossed the ice-draped bridge over the Wastrel, a blizzard was raging.
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