A girl came from the chalet and told him that his dinner was ready.  Chayne forced himself to eat and stepped out again on to the platform.  A door opened and closed behind him.  Michel Revailloud came from the guides’ quarters at the end of the chalet and stood beside him in the darkness, saying nothing since sympathy taught him to be silent, and when he moved moving with great gentleness.

“I am glad, Michel, that we waited here since we had to wait,” said Chayne.

“This chalet is new to you, monsieur.  It has been built while you were away.”

“Yes.  And therefore it has no associations, and no memories.  Its bare whitewashed walls have no stories to tell me of cheery nights on the eve of a new climb when he and I sat together for a while and talked eagerly of the prospects of to-morrow.”

The words ceased.  Chayne leaned his elbows on the wooden rail.  The mists in the valley below had been swept away; overhead the stars shone out of an ebony sky very bright as on some clear winter night of frost, and of all that gigantic amphitheater of mountains which circled behind them from right to left there was hardly a hint.  Perhaps here some extra cube of darkness showed where a pinnacle soared, or there a vague whiteness glimmered where a high glacier hung against the cliff, but for the rest the darkness hid the mountains.  A cold wind blew out of the East and Chayne shivered.

“You are cold, monsieur?” said Michel.  “It is your first night.”

“No, I am not cold,” Chayne replied, in a low and quiet voice.  “But I am thinking it will be deadly cold up there in the darkness on the rocks of the Blaitiere.”

Michel answered him in the same quiet voice.  On that broad open plateau both men spoke indeed as though they were in a sick chamber.

“While you were away, monsieur, three men without food sat through a night on a steep ice-sheltered ice-slope behind us, high up on the Aiguille du Plan, as high up as the rocks of the Blaitiere.  And not one of them came to any harm.”

“I know.  I read of it,” said Chayne, but he gathered little comfort from the argument.

Michel fumbled in his pocket and drew out a pipe.  “You do not smoke any more?” he asked.  “It is a good thing to smoke.”

“I had forgotten,” said Chayne.

He filled his pipe and then took a fuse from his match-box.

“No, don’t waste it,” cried Michel quickly before he could strike it.  “I remember your fuses, monsieur.”

Michel struck a sulphur match and held it as it spluttered, and frizzled, in the hollow of his great hands.  The flame burnt up.  He held it first to Chayne’s pipe-bowl and then to his own; and for a moment his face was lit with the red glow.  Its age thus revealed, and framed in the darkness, shocked Chayne, even at this moment, more than it had done on the platform at Chamonix.  Not merely were its deep lines shown up, but all the old humor and alertness had gone.  The face had grown mask-like and spiritless.  Then the match went out.