More than one of those aiguilles towering upon his left hand, into the sky, had been first conquered by Michel Revailloud.

And how he had enjoyed it all! What resource he had shown, what cheerfulness.

Remorse gradually seized upon Chayne as he looked across the little iron table at his guide.
"Yes, it is a little sad," continued Revailloud.

"But I think that toward the end, life is always a little sad, if"-- and the note of warning once more was audible--"if one has no well-loved companion to share one's memories." The very resignation of Michel's voice brought Chayne to a yet deeper compunction.

The wistful melody still throbbed high and sank, and soared again above the murmurs of the passers-by and floated away upon the clear hot starlit night.