I never could tell.  The thing seemed to have been done by somebody else.  I never have held death in contempt, though in the course of my explorations I have oftentimes felt that to meet one’s fate on a noble mountain, or in the heart of a glacier, would be blessed as compared with death from disease, or from some shabby lowland accident.  But the best death, quick and crystal-pure, set so glaringly open before us, is hard enough to face, even though we feel gratefully sure that we have already had happiness enough for a dozen lives.

But poor Stickeen, the wee, hairy, sleekit beastie, think of him!  When I had decided to dare the bridge, and while I was on my knees chipping a hollow on the rounded brow above it, he came behind me, pushed his head past my shoulder, looked down and across, scanned the sliver and its approaches with his mysterious eyes, then looked me in the face with a startled air of surprise and concern, and began to mutter and whine; saying as plainly as if speaking with words, “Surely, you are not going into that awful place.”  This was the first time I had seen him gaze deliberately into a crevasse, or into my face with an eager, speaking, troubled look.  That he should have recognized and appreciated the danger at the first glance showed wonderful sagacity.  Never before had the daring midget seemed to know that ice was slippery or that there was any such thing as danger anywhere.  His looks and tones of voice when he began to complain and speak his fears were so human that I unconsciously talked to him in sympathy as I would to a frightened boy, and in trying to calm his fears perhaps in some measure moderated my own.  “Hush your fears, my boy,” I said, “we will get across safe, though it is not going to be easy.  No right way is easy in this rough world.  We must risk our lives to save them.  At the worst we can only slip, and then how grand a grave we will have, and by and by our nice bones will do good in the terminal moraine.”

But my sermon was far from reassuring him:  he began to cry, and after taking another piercing look at the tremendous gulf, ran away in desperate excitement, seeking some other crossing.  By the time he got back, baffled of course, I had made a step or two.  I dared not look back, but he made himself heard; and when he saw that I was certainly bent on crossing he cried aloud in despair.  The danger was enough to daunt anybody, but it seems wonderful that he should have been able to weigh and appreciate it so justly.  No mountaineer could have seen it more quickly or judged it more wisely, discriminating between real and apparent peril.