All about it the slate and sandstone was of a dark and clammy wet from a hundred little trickles of snow water that ran down from the peaks.
It was just the sort of a place Thor loved on a July day, but to Muskwa it was dark and gloomy and not a thousandth part as pleasant as the sun.

So after an hour or two he left Thor in his frigidarium and began to investigate the treacherous ledges.
For a few minutes all went well--then he stepped on a green-tinted slope of slate over which a very shallow dribble of water was running.

The water had been running over it in just that way for some centuries, and the shelving slate was worn as smooth as the surface of a polished pearl, and it was as slippery as a greased pole.

Muskwa's feet went out from under him so quickly that he hardly knew what had happened.

The next moment he was on his way to the lake a hundred feet below.