White Motley by Max Pemberton

Benny had dreamed that he fell in the Val d'Herens after an ignoble start from the plateau of Andana. He woke upon this to find it was but a dream, and that the little abbe stood by his bedside with a steaming bowl of coffee in his hand. Here was a man who had been up all night, and who would not sleep until the issue were known. Never was there such an enthusiast.

"It is nothing," he said apologetically. "I have often watched for thirty hours at the Hospice when there has been a storm. We make little difference between night and day up there. The poor people who fall in the snow would not thank us if we did."