He listened to all he heard, and determined that he too would try
his luck. But first he went to the forest and caught a lynx, and
cutting off the creature's sharp claws, he fastened them on to
his own hands and feet.

Armed with these weapons he boldly started up the Glass Mountain.

The sun was nearly going down, and the youth had not got more
than half-way up. He could hardly draw breath he was so worn
out, and his mouth was parched by thirst. A huge black cloud
passed over his head, but in vain did he beg and beseech her to
let a drop of water fall on him. He opened his mouth, but the
black cloud sailed past and not as much as a drop of dew
moistened his dry lips.

His feet were torn and bleeding, and he could only hold on now
with his hands. Evening closed in, and he strained his eyes to
see if he could behold the top of the mountain. Then he gazed
beneath him, and what a sight met his eyes! A yawning abyss,
with certain and terrible death at the bottom, reeking with
half-decayed bodies of horses and riders! And this had been the
end of all the other brave men who like himself had attempted the
ascent.

It was almost pitch dark now, and only the stars lit up the Glass
Mountain. The poor boy still clung on as if glued to the glass
by his blood-stained hands. He made no struggle to get higher,
for all his strength had left him, and seeing no hope he calmly
awaited death. Then all of a sudden he fell into a deep sleep,
and forgetful of his dangerous position, he slumbered sweetly.