‘It is death,’ I tried to say, but could only feebly stir my lips against her own. I drew her breath of flowers into my mouth ... and there came then the darkness which is final. * * * * * The voices grew louder. I heard a man struggling with an unfamiliar language. Turning restlessly, I opened my eyes--upon a little, stuffy room, with white walls whereon no pictures hung. It was very hot. A woman was standing beside the bed, and the bed was very short. I stretched, and my feet kicked against the boarding at the end. ‘Yes, he _is_ awake,’ the woman said in French. ‘Will you come in? The doctor said you might see him when he woke. I think he’ll know you.’ She spoke in French. I just knew enough to understand. And of course I knew him. It was Haddon. I heard him thanking her for all her kindness, as he blundered in. His French, if anything, was worse than my own. I felt inclined to laugh. I did laugh. ‘By Jove! old man, this is bad luck, isn’t it? You’ve had a narrow shave. This good lady telegraphed----’ ‘Have you got my ice-axe? Is it all right?’ I asked. I remembered clearly the motor accident--everything. ‘The ice-axe is right enough,’ he laughed, looking cheerfully at the woman, ‘but what about yourself? Feel bad still? Any pain, I mean?’ ‘Oh, I feel all right,’ I answered, searching for the pain of broken bones, but finding none. ‘What happened? I was stunned, I suppose?’ ‘Bit stunned, yes,’ said Haddon. ‘You got a nasty knock on the head, it seems. The point of the axe ran into you, or something.’ ‘Was that all?’ He nodded. ‘But I’m afraid it’s knocked our climbing on the head. Shocking bad luck, isn’t it?’ ‘I telegraphed last night,’ the kind woman was explaining. ‘But I couldn’t get here till this morning,’ Haddon said. ‘The telegram didn’t find me till midnight, you see.’ And he turned to thank the woman in his voluble, dreadful French. She kept a little pension on the shores of the lake. It was the nearest house, and they had carried me in there and got the doctor to me all within the hour. It proved slight enough, apart from the shock. It was not even concussion. I had merely been stunned. Sleep had cured me, as it seemed. ‘Jolly little place,’ said Haddon, as he moved me that afternoon to Geneva, whence, after a few days’ rest, we went on into the Alps of Haute Savoie, ‘and lucky the old body was so kind and quick. Odd, wasn’t it?’ He glanced at me. Something in his voice betrayed he hid another thought. I saw nothing ‘odd’ in it at all, only very tiresome. ‘What’s its name?’ I asked, taking a shot at a venture. He hesitated a second. Haddon, the climber, was not skilled in the delicacies of tact. ‘Don’t know its present name,’ he answered, looking away from me across the lake, ‘but it stands on the site of an old château--destroyed a hundred years ago--the Château de Bellerive.’