We climb at a venture, in the open, by vague paths and tracks of mud; there are no trenches.

During the gray ascent it is a little clearer than a while ago: they do not fire on us.

If they fired on us, we should be killed.

We climb in flagging jumps, in jerks, pounded by the panting of the following waves that push us before them, closely beset by their clattering, nor turning round to look again.

We hoist ourselves up the trembling flanks of the volcano that clamors up yonder.