Certainly the Forzato had been excellent.

The Countess Lucia handed a crimson shawl, which had fallen back from her shoulders, and which now hung over the back of her chair, across the table to me.

“They are my colours!” she said, with a light in her eye as though she had been royalty itself.

Now, I had studied the Piz Langrev that afternoon, and I was sure it could be done.  I had climbed the worst precipices in the Dungeon of Buchan, and looked into the nest of the eagle on the Clints of Craignaw.  It was not likely that I would come to any harm so long as there was a foothold or an armhold on the face of the cliff.  At least, my idiotic pique had now pledged me to the attempt, as well as my pride, for above all things I desired to stand well in the eyes of the Countess.

But when we had risen from table, and in the evening light took our walk, she repented her of the giving of the gage, and said that the danger was too great.  I must forget it—­how could she bear the anxiety of waiting below while I was climbing the rocks of the Piz Langrev?  It pleased me to hear her say so, but for all that my mind was not turned away from my endeavour.

It was a foolish thing that I had undertaken, but it sprang upon me in the way of talk.  So many follies are committed because we men fear to go back upon our word.  The privilege of woman works the other way.  Which is as well, for the world would come to a speedy end if men and women were to be fools according to the same follies.

The Countess was quieter to-night.  Perhaps she felt that her encouragement had led me into some danger.  Yet she had that sense of the binding nature of the “passed word,” which is perhaps strongest in women who are by nature and education cosmopolitan.  She did not any more persuade me against my attempt, and soon went within.  She had said little, and we had walked along together for the most part silent.  Methought the stars were not so bright to-night, and the glamour had gone from the bridge under which the water was dashing white.

I also returned, for I had my arrangements to make for the expedition.  The weather did not look very promising, for the Thal wind was bringing the heavy mist-spume pouring over the throat of the pass, and driving past the hotel in thin hissing wisps on a chill breeze.  However, even in May the frost was keen at night, and to-morrow might be a day after the climber’s heart.

I sought the manager in his sanctum of polished wood—­a comptoir where there was little to count.  Managers were a fleeting race in the Kursaal Promontonio.  The Count was a kind master.  But he was a Russian, and a taskmaster like those of Egypt, in that he expected his managers to make the bricks of dividends without the straw of visitors.  With him I covenanted to be roused at midnight.

Herr Gutwein was somewhat unwilling.  He had not so many visitors that he could afford to expend one on the cliffs of the Piz Langrev.