Short Stories

Stories

Previous Stories (62) | Next Stories (64)

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


Previous Stories (62) | Next Stories (64)

Stories Index