"You are young, my son, and when one is young one must needs climb alone, _n'est ce pas_? One seeks the adventure--the brave adventure...." He sighed. "Then the heart of monsieur must be sound and his sinews strong. But once there, I am told the view is superb, and there is a hunter living near the top who will give you a meal at a moderate charge. The path is not difficult--when one is young and the heart sound...." * * * * * "_Cinq heures du matin, monsieur!_" The old man, who combined the duties of cook, waiter, chambermaid, and _maître-d'hôtel_, hammered at my door, and I awoke. A thin coating of ice had spread over the water in my jug, and through the open window the stars still shone with frosty brilliance. By the time I had finished a bowl of chocolate and stood outside in football "shorts," nailed boots, and sweater, the first hint of dawn was creeping over the edge of the hills. Early as it was, a sleepy teamster was yoking up his horses outside and stamping on the road to warm his feet. I could see the summit of Mount Mounier, 9,000 feet above the level of the sea I had left but the day before. But there remained another 5,000 feet to climb, and 9,000 to descend ere I earned my bed that night. So with a "Good morning!" to the carter (who regarded it out of place and superfluous) I set forth. The going was easy enough, and I simply steered for the snow-cap. For the first hour or so I crossed cultivated ground, which gave place to turf, cropped like an English lawn by sheep and goats, and finally to rough shale and boulders. The sun rose before I was high enough to see more than the sudden flush on a few isolated snow-capped peaks, but as I climbed steadily the whole panorama unfolded, and the rounded foothills, with their fir-clad slopes and glens, the village of Beuil, the valley up which I had come the day before, all dropped back into insignificance. By eight o'clock I had reached the snow, and could detect far above me a tiny speck where the huntsman's dwelling was. An hour later, and I heard the unmistakable bark of a dog. A few wearisome zigzag paths, a struggle up some steps cut in the frozen snow, and I was greeted by a gaunt deer-hound, who sniffed round me and slobbered at my hands. A man came out of a two-roomed shanty of pine-logs and turf. He was cleaning a muzzle-loading gun, and put it down to meet me with extended hand. "_Tu as bien grimpé, m'n ami!_" As we shook hands he placed his disengaged one over my heart with the air of a Harley Street specialist and nodded, smiling. "_Je t'ai vu, depuis sept heures.... Oui, tu as bien grimpé. C'est un cœur fort._" He was a wiry little man of about fifty, with a wrinkled face, burnt madder-brown by exposure to the sun and wind, a pair of hawk-like eyes, and an aquiline nose. In fact, altogether he looked very like a hawk.