So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. “They ought to have been lopped in the spring. After a day or so, perhaps, we will go on one or two little excursions and see how good your head is—a mild scramble or so; and then up to a hut on a pass just here, and out upon the Blumlis-alp glacier that spreads out so and so. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared.
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