We had now arrived at the foot of that part which, from the Riffelberg or from Zermatt, seems perpendicular or overhanging, and could no longer continue upon the eastern side.  For a little distance we ascended by snow upon the arete—­that is, the ridge—­descending toward Zermatt, and then by common consent turned over to the right, or to the northern side.  Before doing so we made a change in the order of ascent.  Croz went first, I followed, Hudson came third; Hadow and old Peter were last.  “Now,” said Croz as he led off—­“now for something altogether different.”  The work became difficult, and required caution.  In some places there was little to hold, and it was desirable that those should be in front who were least likely to slip.  The general slope of the mountain at this part was less than forty degrees, and snow had accumulated in, and had filled up, the interstices of the rock-face, leaving only occasional fragments projecting here and there.  These were at times covered with a thin film of ice, produced from the melting and refreezing of the snow.

It was the counterpart, on a small scale, of the upper seven hundred feet of the Pointe des Ecrins; only there was this material difference—­the face of the Ecrins was about, or exceeded, an angle of fifty degrees, and the Matterhorn face was less than forty degrees.  It was a place over which any fair mountaineers might pass in safety, and Mr. Hudson ascended this part, and, as far as I know, the entire mountain, without having the slightest assistance rendered to him upon any occasion.  Sometimes, after I had taken a hand from Croz or received a pull, I turned to offer the same to Hudson, but he invariably declined, saying it was not necessary.  Mr. Hadow, however, was not accustomed to this kind of work, and required continual assistance.  It is only fair to say that the difficulty which he found at this part arose simply and entirely from want of experience.

This solitary difficult part was of no great extent.  We bore away over it at first nearly horizontally, for a distance of about four hundred feet, then ascended directly toward the summit for about sixty feet, and then doubled back to the ridge which descends toward Zermatt.  A long stride round a rather awkward corner brought us to snow once more.  The last doubt vanished!  The Matterhorn was ours!  Nothing but two hundred feet of easy snow remained to be surmounted!....

The summit of the Matterhorn was formed of a rudely level ridge, about three hundred and fifty feet long.  The day was one of those superlatively calm and clear ones which usually precede bad weather.  The atmosphere was perfectly still and free from clouds or vapors.  Mountains fifty—­nay, a hundred—­miles off looked sharp and near.  All their details—­ridge and crag, snow and glacier—­stood out with faultless definition.  Pleasant thoughts of happy days in bygone years came up unbidden as we recognized the old, familiar forms.  All were revealed—­not