CHAPTER II.
THE MATTERHORN—FURGGEN RIDGE.
A YEAR later, at Couttet's Hotel, I was dreaming peacefully of my bien aimée the Aiguille des Charmoz—whom we had successfully wooed the previous day—when Burgener broke in upon my slumbers and ejected me, ruthlessly, from the soft comfort of my bed.
Protests were vain. The huge ridge of the Furggen Matterhorn had long tempted his desires, and what are such things as sleep, rest, or blissful ease, when weighed in the balance with the wild joy of gripping grey-brown ledges, and hacking and beating the long gullies of black ice into submission? All the ingrained fighting instinct was aroused in him. He wished to hurl himself once more at the cliffs and ridges, matching his skill against their dumb, passionless resistance, and forcing them now, as ever, to yield to his reckless onslaught. Time, however, pressed, and if this attempt was to be made, without prejudicing other long-cherished hopes, it was necessary to reach Stalden that very night.
