ing was like a sick man
of ninety. I knew that things must be pretty bad with my friend.

"I got to Chamonix in time for his funeral. An ordinary climbing
accident--you probably read about it in the papers. The Press talked
about the toll which the Alps took from intellectuals--the usual rot.
There was an inquiry, but the facts were quite simple. The body was
only recognised by the clothes. He had fallen several thousand feet.

"It seems that he had climbed for a few days with one of the Kronigs
and Dupont, and they had done some hair-raising things on the
Aiguilles. Dupont told me that they had found a new route up the
Montanvert side of the Charmoz. He said that Hollond climbed like a
'diable fou' and if you know Dupont's standard of madness you will see
that the pace must have been pretty hot. 'But monsieur was sick,' he
added; 'his eyes were not good. And I and Franz, we were grieved for
him and a little afraid. We were glad when he left us.'

"He dismissed the guides two days before his death. The next day he
spent in the hotel, getting his affairs straight. He left everything
in perfect order, but not a line to a soul, not even to his sister.
The following day he set out alone about three in the morning for the
Grepon. He took the road up the Nantillons glacier to the Col, and
then he must have climbed the Mummery crack by himself. After that he
left the ordinary route and tried a new traverse across the Mer de
Glace face. Somewhere near the top he fell, and next day a party going
to the Dent du Requin found him on the rocks thousands of feet below.

"He had slipped in attempting the most foolhardy course on earth, and
there was a lot of talk about the dangers of guideless climbing. But I
guessed the truth, and I am sure Dupont knew, though he held his
tongue...."

We were now on the gravel of the drive, and I was feeling better. The
thought of dinner warmed my heart and drove out the eeriness of the
twilight glen. The hour between dog and wolf was passing. After all,
there was a gross and jolly earth at hand for wise men who had a mind
to comfort.

Leithen, I saw, did not share my mood. He looked glum and puzzled, as
if his tale had aroused grim memories. He finished it at the Lodge
door.

"... For, of course, he had gone out that day to die. He had seen the
something more, the little bit too much, which plucks a man from his
moorings. He had gone so far into the land of pure spirit t