Into it there stole a joyous
luminance which made saints' haloes for the reflected heads of mountains.
The sun rose, and stepped slowly into the water's dream. It flung the lake
a golden loving cup, thrilling it to the heart with that bright gift.
A little farther on, by the Happy Isles--small, lovely islands of rock in
the river's whirl--Nick and Angela found their trail ponies waiting in
charge of a boy. But Nick knew the trail well, and was to be the sole
guide, as they had always planned. He put Angela up on an intelligent
brown bronco, which had to be ridden Mexican fashion; and they set off
together, the boy looking after them as if he, too, would have liked to
follow the trail.
Far ahead they could see the procession of their lost companions, just
rounding a sharp corner. They were an admirable cavalcade in khaki, the
men wearing sombreros, the girls with brilliant blue or green veils tied
over big hats, and scarlet silk handkerchiefs knotted at their necks. The
gaily coloured figures on horse or mule back fitted the picture as
appropriately as if they had been Indians; and Angela gazed at them with
pleasure; but she felt no wish to join the band.
Nick led; she rode close behind, sometimes mounting, sometimes descending
the narrow trail toward Glacier Point.
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