Chapter Eleven
In the mountains you lose the sense of time. There is something greater than time that takes its place. It is not that time is reduced to something petty and inessential in the face of this colossal majesty, although there is a suggestion of something of the kind, especially in the violet skies of the dawn and in the early evening, which seem to alternate more frequently than in the ordinary life down on the plains. That was not it, during this period of transition, whether it was a week, or ten days, or perhaps only two, they simply had to survive. There was no fear left, for fear was everything – all they had left were their naked instincts: to grab hold, scramble, to lick their wounds, to prevail.
When they emerged into a valley, as suddenly as if someone had pronounced
