The guide told us the prices for the Matterhorn and the other "horns" in and about Zermatt. "Three hundred francs to go up the Matterhorn!" the historian gasped. "Why, we haven't over a hundred in the outfit." "Ah, but the Breithorn!" the guide went on, readjusting his coil of rope and ax, as if he knew that it was these very things that were tempting us and leading us into bankruptcy. Never before or since have ropes and axes possessed such fascinating qualities as they did that day. The guide told us that the Breithorn was ours for thirty francs--"_Sehr billig, sehr billig_," he added. The historian and I took stock of our resources. We finally concluded that, if the hotel bill at Zermatt didn't exhaust our means, we could just barely hire the guide, climb the mountain, pay railroad fare back to Brieg, and have a few francs left over for incidentals until fresh funds arrived. We knew a hotel man in Brieg who would trust us--at least we thought he would--and the main thing just then was going up the Breithorn. At a pinch we knew that we could go "on tramp," or rather I did. The historian just guessed that he could. We stopped by the wayside to rest and think. Foolishly, I pulled the "Tramp Abroad" book out of my pocket by way of reference. I wanted to make sure that our guide was the real thing, _a la_ "A Tramp Abroad." Then I glanced at his rope and ax. That decided the matter for me. "Up the Breithorn we go," I cried, and the guide was formally engaged. In ascending this mountain from Zermatt the average traveler, I believe, stops over night at the Theodule Pass, continuing the journey early in the morning. Our guide, for some foolish reason, decided that we were not average travelers, that it would be a mere bagatelle for us to sleep in Zermatt until early morning, and then do the whole thing in one gasp. My clothes--a light summer outfit from head to feet--were about as suitable for such an adventure as for the North Pole. The historian was a little more warmly clad, but not much. However, perhaps we should never pass that way again, as Heine sighs in his "Harzreise," and then--what regrets we might suffer! The time came when, for a moment, we regretted that we had ever passed that way at all--but I anticipate.