“We must hurry, Couttet!”

“Yes, but no man goes quick here who does not go for the last time.”

In fact, our position had an appearance of peril.  We were part way up the frozen precipice that cuts across the Corridor, and were balancing ourselves on an acute wedge of ice which stood off several feet in front of the precipice, being separated from it by a deep cleft.  The outer side of this wedge, whose edge we were traversing lengthwise, pitched down into the darkness and ended, I believe, in a crevasse.  Presently we reached a place where the precipice overhung our precarious footway, and an inverted forest of icicles depended above us.

“Make as little noise as possible, and step gently,” said Couttet.

This is a familiar precaution in the High Alps, where the vibrations of sound sometimes act the part of the trigger of a gun and let loose terrific energies ready poised for action.  The clinking of particles of ice that shot from our feet into the depths distracted attention from the beautiful play of the light of the lanterns on some of the hanging masses.

At last we attained a point where it was possible, by swinging round a somewhat awkward corner, to get upon the roof of the precipice.  This we found so steep that occasional steps had also to be cut there.

The lights of the pursuers had approached the foot of the wall, and though now invisible, we knew the party was ascending close behind, taking advantage of the steps we had made.  This spurred us on, although I was beginning to suffer some inconvenience from the rarity of the air, and had to stop to breathe much oftener than I liked.  In truth, the spurt we had made, beginning at the Grands Montees, involved an over-expenditure of energy whose effects I could not escape, and nature was already demanding usury for the loan.

As we approached the ridge of the saddle, day rose blushing in the east, and Couttet put out the lantern.  Turning to the right, we hurried in zigzags up the slippery Mur de la Cote, stopping to cut steps only when strictly necessary.  While we were ascending this wall the sun appeared, and hung for a moment, a great, dazzling, fire-colored circle, on a distant mountain rim.  Below us for a long time the great valleys remained filled with gloom, while out of and around there rose hundreds of peaks, tipped with pink and gold.  But very few of the towering giants now reached to our level, and in a little while we should be above them all.

Once on top of the Mur we had level going again for a space, and hurrying to the base of the crowning dome, which swells upward another thousand feet, we began its ascent without stopping.  About half way up the dome the highest visible rocks of Mont Blanc on this side break through the Mur.  They are called the Petits Mulets.  We had nearly reached them when, looking back, I saw the heads of the other party appearing on the brink of the Mur.  They