But if he climbed down the ice-arete, the snow-slopes, and the rocks below, if the snow-bridges held upon the glacier, there would be life for one of the three.

Pierre Delouvain had little in common with that loyal race of Alpine guides who hold it as their most sacred tradition not to return home without their patrons.
"Yes, it is our one hope," he said; and untying himself with awkward fumbling fingers from the kinked rope, and coiling the spare rope about his shoulders, he went down the slope.

During the night the steps had frozen and in many places it was necessary to recut them.

He too was stiff with the long vigil.

He moved slowly, with numbed and frozen limbs.
But as his ax rose and fell, the blood began to burn in the tips of his fingers, to flow within his veins; he went more and more firmly.