I mean to be in at the death if I can." Miste never turned, but continued his painful, upward way.

He was a light stepper, as his shallow footprints betokened; but I saw with grim delight that each step of mine overlapped his measure by a couple of inches.
There is nothing so still as the atmosphere of a summit, and in this dead silence we hurried on.

Giraud's laboured breathing alone broke it.

I glanced at him, and saw that his face was of a pasty white and gleaming with perspiration.

Poor Alphonse had not much more in him.