w this
year. The great bergschrund will be very difficult. In any season it is
always difficult to cross that bergschrund on to the steep ice-slope
beyond. It is so badly bridged with snow. This season it will be as bad
as can be. The ice-slope up to the Col will also take a long time. So
start very early."

As Michel spoke, as he anticipated the difficulties and set his thoughts
to overcome them, his eyes lit up, his whole face grew younger.

Chayne smiled.

"I wish you were coming with me Michel," he said, and at once the
animation died out of Michel's face. He became once more a sad,
dispirited man.

"Alas, monsieur," he said, "I have crossed my last Col. I have ascended
my last mountain."

"You, Michel?" cried Chayne.

"Yes, monsieur, I," replied Michel, quietly. "I have grown old. My eyes
hurt me on the mountains, and my feet burn. I am no longer fit for
anything except to lead mules up to the Montanvert and conduct parties on
the Mer de Glace."

Chayne stared at Michel Revailloud. He thought of what the guide's life
had been, of its interest, its energy, its achievement. More than one of
those aiguilles towering upon his left hand, into the sky, had been first
conquered by Michel Revailloud. And how he had enjoyed it all! What
resource he had shown, what cheerfulness. Remorse gradually seized upon
Chayne as he looked across the little iron table at his guide.

"Yes, it is a little sad," continued Revailloud. "But I think that toward
the end, life is always a little sad, if"--and the note of warning once
more was audible--"if one has no well-loved companion to share one's
memories."

The very resignation of Michel's voice brought Chayne to a yet deeper
compunction. The wistful melody still throbbed high and sank, and soared
again above the murmurs of the passers-by and floated away upon the clear
hot starlit night. Chayne wondered with what words it spoke to his old
guide. He looked at the tired sad face on which a smile of friendliness
now played, and his heart ached. He felt some shame that his own troubles
had so engrossed him. After all, Lattery was not greatly to be pitied.
That was true. He himself too was young. There would come other summers,
other friends. The real irreparable trouble sat there before him on the
other side of the iron table, the trouble of an old age to be lived out
in loneliness.

"You never married, Michel?" he said.

"No. There was a time, long ago, when I would have like