Very good.  The next thing was, how to get down the glacier comfortably—­for the mule-road to it was long, and winding, and wearisome.  I set my mind at work, and soon thought out a plan.  One looks straight down upon the vast frozen river called the Gorner Glacier, from the Gorner Grat, a sheer precipice twelve hundred feet high.  We had one hundred and fifty-four umbrellas —­and what is an umbrella but a parachute?

I mentioned this noble idea to Harris, with enthusiasm, and was about to order the Expedition to form on the Gorner Grat, with their umbrellas, and prepare for flight by platoons, each platoon in command of a guide, when Harris stopped me and urged me not to be too hasty.  He asked me if this method of descending the Alps had ever been tried before.  I said no, I had not heard of an instance.  Then, in his opinion, it was a matter of considerable gravity; in his opinion it would not be well to send the whole command over the cliff at once; a better way would be to send down a single individual, first, and see how he fared.

I saw the wisdom in this idea instantly.  I said as much, and thanked my agent cordially, and told him to take his umbrella and try the thing right away, and wave his hat when he got down, if he struck in a soft place, and then I would ship the rest right along.

Harris was greatly touched with this mark of confidence, and said so, in a voice that had a perceptible tremble in it; but at the same time he said he did not feel himself worthy of so conspicuous a favor; that it might cause jealousy in the command, for there were plenty who would not hesitate to say he had used underhanded means to get the appointment, whereas his conscience would bear him witness that he had not sought it at all, nor even, in his secret heart, desired it.

I said these words did him extreme credit, but that he must not throw away the imperishable distinction of being the first man to descend an Alp per parachute, simply to save the feelings of some envious underlings.  No, I said, he must accept the appointment—­it was no longer an invitation, it was a command.

He thanked me with effusion, and said that putting the thing in this form removed every objection.  He retired, and soon returned with his umbrella, his eye flaming with gratitude and his cheeks pallid with joy.  Just then the head guide passed along.  Harris’s expression changed to one of infinite tenderness, and he said: 

“That man did me a cruel injury four days ago, and I said in my heart he should live to perceive and confess that the only noble revenge a man can take upon his enemy is to return good for evil.  I resign in his favor.  Appoint him.”

I threw my arms around the generous fellow and said: 

“Harris, you are the noblest soul that lives.  You shall not regret this sublime act, neither shall the world fail to know of it.  You shall have opportunity far transcending this one, too, if I live—­remember that.”