My old enemy—the Matterhorn—seen across the basin of the Z’Muttgletscher, looked totally unassailable. “Do you think,” the men asked, “that you, or any one else, will ever get up _that_ mountain?” And when, undismayed by their ridicule, I stoutly answered, “Yes, but not upon that side,” they burst into derisive chuckles. I must confess that my hopes sank; for nothing can look more completely inaccessible than the Matterhorn on its northern and north-west sides. “Forwards” once again. We overtopped the Dent d’Hérens. “Not a thousand feet more; in three hours we shall be on the summit.” “You mean _ten_,” echoed Croz, so slow had been the progress. But I was not far wrong in the estimate. At 3.15 we struck the great ridge followed by Mr. Kennedy, close to the top of the mountain. The wind and cold were terrible there. Progress was oftentimes impossible, and we waited, crouching under the lee of rocks, listening to “the shrieking of the mindless wind,” while the blasts swept across, tearing off the upper snow and blowing it away in streamers over the Schönbühl glacier—“nothing seen except an indescribable writhing in the air, like the wind made visible.” Our goal was concealed by mist, although it was only a few yards away, and Croz’s prophecy, that we should stay all night upon the summit, seemed likely to come true. The men rose with the occasion, although even _their_ fingers had nearly lost sensation. There were no murmurings, nor suggestions of return, and they pressed on for the little white cone which they knew must be near at hand. Stopped again; a big mass perched loosely on the ridge barred the way; we could not crawl over, and scarcely dared creep round it. The wine went round for the last time. The liquor was half-frozen,—still we would more of it. It was all gone; the bottle was left behind, and we pushed on, for there was a lull. The end came almost before it was expected. The clouds opened, and I saw that we were all but upon the highest point, and that, between us and it, about twenty yards off, there was a little artificial pile of stones. Kennedy was a true man,—it was a cairn which he had erected. “What is that, Croz?” “_Homme des pierres_,” he bawled. It was needless to proceed farther; I jerked the rope from Biener, and motioned that we should go back. He did the same to Almer, and we turned immediately. _They_ did not see the stones (they were cutting footsteps), and misinterpreted the reason of the retreat. Voices were inaudible, and explanations impossible.(171)