I took from my back the pine-branch which had been such a difficulty to me in the narrow places of the ascent; and with the first ray of the morning sun, from the summit of Langrev the pennon of the Countess Lucia streamed out.  I thought of Manager Gutwein down there on the look-out, and I rejoiced that I had pledged him to secrecy.

Gutwein—­there was a sound as of cakes and ale in the very name.

A little way beneath the summit, where the Thal wind does not vex, I sat me down on the sunny eastern side to consult with the Gutwein breakfast.  A bottle of cold tea—­“Hum,” said I; “that may keep till I get farther down.  It will be useful in case of emergency—­there is nothing like cold tea in an emergency. Imprimis, half a bottle of Forzato—­our old Straw wine.  How thoughtless of Gutwein!  He ought to have remembered that that particular sort does not keep.  We had better take it now!” There was also half a chicken, some clove-scented Graubuendenfleisch, four large white rolls, crisp as an Engadine cook can make them, half a pound of butter in each—­O excellent Gutwein—­O great and judicious Gutwein!

But no more—­for the sun was climbing the sky, and I must go down with a rush to be in time for the late breakfast of the hotel.

The rocks came first—­no easy matter with the sun on them for half an hour; but they at last were successfully negotiated.  Then came the long snow-slope.  This we went down all sails set.  I hear that the process is named glissading in this country.  It is called hunker-sliding in Scotland among the Galloway hills—­a favourite occupation of politicians.  It added to the flavour that we might very probably finish all standing in a crevasse.  Snow rushed past, flew up one’s nose and froze there.  It did not behave itself thus when we slid down Craig Ronald and whizzed out upon the smooth breast of Loch Grannoch.  I was reflecting on this unwarrantable behaviour of the snow, when there came a bump, a somersault, a slide, a scramble.  “Dear me!” I say; “how did this happen?” Ears, eyes, mouth, nose were full of fine powdered snow—­also, there were tons down one’s back.  Cold as charity, but no great harm done.

The table was set for the dejeuner in the dining-room of the hotel.  The Count was standing rubbing his hands.  Henry, who had been shooting at a mark, came in smelling of gun-oil; and after a little pause of waiting came the Countess.

“Where,” said the Count, “is our Alpinist?” Henry had not seen him that day.  He was no doubt somewhere about.  But Herr Gutwein smiled, and also the waiter.  They knew something.  There was a crying at the door.  The porter, full of noisy admiration, rang the great bell as for an arrival.  Gutwein disappeared.  The Count followed, then came Lucia and Henry.  At that moment I arrived, outwardly calm, with my clothes carefully dusted from travel-stains, all the equipment of the ascent left in the wayside chalet by the bridge.