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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.


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