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The words ceased. Chayne leaned his elbows on the wooden rail. The mists
in the valley below had been swept away; overhead the stars shone out of
an ebony sky very bright as on some clear winter night of frost, and of
all that gigantic amphitheater of mountains which circled behind them
from right to left there was hardly a hint. Perhaps here some extra cube
of darkness showed where a pinnacle soared, or there a vague whiteness
glimmered where a high glacier hung against the cliff, but for the rest
the darkness hid the mountains. A cold wind blew out of the East and
Chayne shivered.

"You are cold, monsieur?" said Michel. "It is your first night."

"No, I am not cold," Chayne replied, in a low and quiet voice. "But I am
thinking it will be deadly cold up there in the darkness on the rocks of
the Blaitiere."

Michel answered him in the same quiet voice. On that broad open plateau
both men spoke indeed as though they were in a sick chamber.

"While you were away, monsieur, three men without food sat through a
night on a steep ice-sheltered ice-slope behind us, high up on the
Aiguille du Plan, as high up as the rocks of the Blaitiere. And not one


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