d to," the guide
answered, simply. "But I think now it was as well that I did not get my
way. She was very extravagant. She would have needed much money, and
guides are poor people, monsieur--not like your professional cricketers,"
he said, with a laugh. And then he turned toward the massive wall of
mountains. Here and there a slim rock spire, the Dru or the Charmoz,
pointed a finger to the stars, here and there an ice-field glimmered like
a white mist held in a fold of the hills. But to Michel Revailloud, the
whole vast range was spread out as on a raised map, buttress and peak,
and dome of snow from the Aiguille d'Argentiere in the east to the summit
of Mont Blanc in the west. In his thoughts he turned from mountain to
mountain and found each one, majestic and beautiful, dear as a living
friend, and hallowed with recollections. He remembered days when they had
called, and not in vain, for courage and endurance, days of blinding
snow-storms and bitter winds which had caught him half-way up some
ice-glazed precipice of rock or on some long steep ice-slope crusted
dangerously with thin snow into which the ax must cut deep hour after
hour, however frozen the fingers, or tired the limbs. He recalled the
thrill of joy with which, after many vain attempts, he, the first of men,
had stepped on to the small topmost pinnacle of this or that new peak. He
recalled the days of travel, the long glacier walks on the high level
from Chamonix to Zermatt, and from Zermatt again to the Oberland; the
still clear mornings and the pink flush upon some high white cone which
told that somewhere the sun had risen; and the unknown ridges where
expected difficulties suddenly vanished at the climber's approach, and
others where an easy scramble suddenly turned into the most difficult of
climbs. Michel raised his glass in the air. "Here is good-by to you--the
long good-by," he said, and his voice broke. And abruptly he turned to
Chayne with his eyes full of tears and began to speak in a quick
passionate whisper, while the veins stood out upon his forehead and his
face quivered.

"Monsieur, I told you your friend was not greatly to be pitied. I tell
you now something more. The guide we brought down with him from the
Glacier des Nantillons a fortnight back--all this fortnight I have been
envying him--yes, yes, even though he kicked the snow with his feet for a
little before he died. It is better to do so than to lead mules up to the
Montanvert."