There is still a little peak above us; an overhanging horn of snow which the wind has built against the mountain-top. I would like to stand there, just for a moment. The guide protests it would be dangerous, for if the snow should break it would be a fall of a thousand feet to the glacier on the northern side. But let us dare the few steps upward. How our feet sink! Is the snow slipping?
Look at the glacier! What is happening? It is wrinkling and curling backward on us, serpent-like. Its head rises far above us.
All its icy crests are clashing together like the ringing of a thousand bells. We are falling! I fling out my arm to grasp the guide--and awake to find myself clutching a pillow in the bunk.
The alarm-clock is ringing fiercely for three o'clock. A driving snow-storm is beating against the window. The ground is white.
Peer through the clouds as I may, I cannot even catch a glimpse of the vanished Gross-Venediger.
1892.
