The hour had come to start, the carriage was at the door and the provisions were in it, and Wieland and I were in readiness when, to our surprise, Roman turned up without Mr Garwood. A note which he brought explained that the latter was not well, but hoped I would make the expedition all the same, and take Roman with me. I was unwilling to monopolise a new ascent, though probably only an easy one, so I refused to go till my friend was better, and asked the guides to suggest something else. The weather was lovely and our food ready, and it seemed a pity to waste either.

Wieland could not think of a suitable climb, so I turned to Roman, who had only arrived at Pontresina two days before, and asked him his ideas.

He very sensibly inquired: "What peaks have you not done yet here, ma'am?"

"All but the Scerscen."

"Then we go for the—whatever you call it."

"Oh, but Roman," I exclaimed, "the Scerscen is very difficult, and there is 3 feet of fresh snow on the mountains, and it is out of the question!"

"I don't believe any of these mountains are difficult," said Roman doggedly, with that contempt for all Engadine climbing shown by guides from the other side of Switzerland.

"Ask Wieland," I suggested.

Wieland smiled at the question, and said he did not at all mind going to look at the Scerscen, but, as to ascending it under the present conditions, of course it was absurd.

"Besides," he added, "we are much too late to go to the Marinelli Hut to-day."

"Why not do it from the Mortel Hut?" I remarked, on the "in for a penny in for a pound" principle.

He smiled again; indeed, I think he laughed, and agreed that, as anyhow we could not go up the Scerscen, we might as well sleep at the Mortel Hut as anywhere else.

"Have you ever been up it?" Roman inquired.

Wieland answered that he had not. Roman turned to me: "Can you find the mountain? Should you know it if you saw it? Don't let us go up the wrong one, ma'am!"

I promised to lead them to the foot of the peak, and Roman repeated his conviction that all Engadine mountains were perfectly easy, and that we should find ourselves on the top of the Scerscen next morning. However, he made no objection to taking an extra rope of 100 feet, and, telling one friend our plan in strictest confidence, we climbed into the carriage.

We duly arrived at the Mortel Hut and were early in bed, as Roman wished us to set out at an early hour, or a late one, if I may thus allude to 11 P.M. He was still firmly convinced that to the top of the Scerscen we should go, and wanted every moment in hand, in spite of his recent criticisms of Engadine mountains. There was a very useful moon, and by its light we promised Roman to take him to the foot of the peak, where its rocky sides rise abruptly from the Scerscen Glacier.

I must here explain that there are several ways up the Scerscen. I wished to ascend by the rocks on the south side, which, though harder, were safer than the other routes. As for the descent (if we got up!) we intended coming down the way we had ascended, little knowing not only that no one had been down by this route, but also that a party had attempted to get down it and had been driven back. As for finding our way up, some notes in the Alpine Journal were our only guide. The mountain had been previously ascended but a few times altogether, and only, I think, once or twice by the south face. No lady had up till then tried it.

We were off punctually at 11 P.M., and by the brilliant light of the moon made good time over the glacier and up the snow slopes leading to the Sella Pass. This we reached in three hours, without a pause, from the hut, and, making no halt there, immediately plunged into the softer snow on the Italian side, and began to skirt the precipices on our left. Even in midsummer, it was still dark at this early hour, and the moon had already set. A great rocky peak rose near us, and Wieland gave it as his opinion that it was the Scerscen. I differed from him, believing our mountain to be some distance farther, so it was mutually agreed that we should halt for food, after which we should have more light to enable us to determine our position.

Gradually the warmth of dawn crept over the sky, and soon the beautiful spectacle of an Alpine sunrise was before us, with the wonderful "flush of adoration" on the mountain heads. There was no doubt now where we were; our peak was some way beyond, and the only question was, how to go up it? I repeated to Roman the information I had gleaned from the Journal, and he thanked me, doubtless having his own ideas, which he intended alone to be guided by. Luckily, as we advanced the mountain became visible from base to summit, so that Roman could trace out his way up it as upon a map. We walked up the glacier to the foot of the mighty wall, and soon began to go up it, advancing for some time with fair rapidity, in spite of the fresh snow. After, perhaps, a couple of hours or so, we came to our first real difficulty. This was a tall, red cliff, with a cleft up part of it, and, as there was an evil-looking and nearly perpendicular gully of ice to the right and overhanging rocks to the left, we had either to go straight up or abandon the expedition. The cleft was large and was garnished with a sturdy icicle, or column of ice, some 5 feet or more in diameter. Bidding me wedge myself into a firm place, Roman began to cut footholds up the icicle, and then, when after a few steps the cleft or chimney ended, he turned to his right and wormed himself along the very face of the cliff, holding on by the merest irregularities, which can hardly be termed ledges. After a couple of yards he struck straight up, and wriggling somehow on the surface, rendered horribly slippery by the snow, he at last, after what seemed an age, called on Wieland to follow. What was a tour de force for the first man was comparatively easy for the second, and soon my turn came to try my hand—or rather my feet and knees and any other adhesive portion of my person—on the business. The first part was the worst, for, as the rope came from the side and not above till the traverse was made, I had no help. Eventually I, too, emerged on to the wall, and saw right over me the rope passing through a gap, behind which, excellently placed, were the guides. I helped myself to the utmost of my capacity, but a pull was not unwelcome towards the end, when, exhausted and breathless, I could struggle no more. As I joined the guides they moved to give me space on the ledge, and we spent a well-earned quarter of an hour in rest and refreshment. The worst was now over, but owing to the snow, which covered much of the rock to a depth of about 2 or 3 feet, the remainder of the way was distinctly difficult, and as the mountain was totally unknown to us we never could tell what troubles might be in store. However, having left the foot of the actual peak at 5.40 A.M., we arrived on the top at 10.40 A.M., and as we lifted our heads above the final rocks, hardly daring to believe that we really were on the summit, a distant cheer was borne to our ears from Piz Bernina, and we knew that our arrival had been observed by another party.

So formidable did we consider the descent that we only allowed ourselves ten minutes on the top, and then we prepared to go. Could we cross the ridge to Piz Bernina and so avoid the chimney? It had a great reputation, and we feared to embark on the unknown. So at 10.50 A.M. we began the descent, moving one at a time with the utmost caution. Before long the difficulties increased as we reached the steeper part of the mountain. The rocks now streamed with water from the rapidly melting snow, under the rays of an August sun. As I held on, streams ran in at my wristbands, and soon I was soaked through. But the work demanded such close attention that a mere matter of discomfort was nothing. Presently we had to uncoil our spare 100 feet of rope, and now our progress grew slower and slower. After some hours we came to the chimney. No suitable rock could be found to attach the rope to, so Roman sat down and thought the matter out. The difficulty was to get the last man down; for the two first, held from above, the descent was easy. Roman soon hit upon an ingenious idea. Wieland and I were to go down to the bottom of the cleft. Wieland was to unrope me and, leaving me, was to cut steps across the ice-slope to our left till leverage was obtainable for the rope across the boss of rock where Roman stood, and where it would remain in position so long as it was kept taut, with Roman at one end and Wieland slowly paying out from below. The manœuvre succeeded, and after about two hours' work Wieland had hewn a large platform in the ice and prepared to gradually let out the rope as Roman came down. He descended in grand form, puffing at his pipe and declared the difficulty grossly over-rated, though he did not despise the precaution. At 2.30 A.M. we re-entered the Mortel Hut, somewhat tired, but much pleased with the success of our expedition.

Our second ascent of Piz Scerscen is soon told.

Four days later Roman casually remarked to me: "It is a pity, ma'am, we have not crossed the Scerscen to the Bernina."

"It is," I replied. "Let us start at once and do it."

Wieland was consulted, and was only too delighted to go anywhere under Roman's leadership. Our times will give an idea of the changed state of the mountain, for, leaving the Mortel Hut at 12.30 midnight, we were on the top of the Scerscen at 8 A.M. At nine we set off, and taking things leisurely, with halts for food, we passed along the famous arête, and, thanks to Roman's choice of route, met with not one really hard step. At 2.30 P.M. we found ourselves on the top of Piz Bernina, and had a chat with another party, who had arrived not long before. I waited to see them start, and rejoiced that I had kept two plates. Then we, too, set forth, and were in the valley by 7 P.M.

THE FIRST ASCENT OF MONT BLANC BY A WOMAN, AND SOME SUBSEQUENT ASCENTS

The first woman who reached the summit of Mont Blanc was a native of Chamonix, Maria Paradis by name. Her account of her expedition is so admirably graphic and picturesque that I shall give a translation of it as like the original as I can. Though it was so far back as the year 1809, Maria writes quite in the spirit of modern journalism.

She begins:—"I was only a poor servant. One day the guides said to me, 'We are going up there, come with us. Travellers will come and see you afterwards and give you presents.' That decided me, and I set out with them. When I reached the Grand Plateau I could not walk any longer. I felt very ill, and I lay down on the snow. I panted like a chicken in the heat. They held me up by my arms on each side and dragged me along. But at the Rochers-Rouge I could get no further, and I said to them 'Chuck me into a crevasse and go on yourselves.'

"'You must go to the top,' answered the guides. They seized hold of me, they dragged me, they pushed me, they carried me, and at last we arrived. Once at the summit, I could see nothing clearly, I could not breathe, I could not speak."

Maria was thirty years of age, and made quite a fortune out of her achievement. From that time, tourists returning from Mont Blanc noticed with surprise, as they passed through the pine woods, a feast spread out under the shade of a huge tree. Cream, fruit, etc., were tastefully displayed on the white cloth. A neat-looking peasant woman urged them to partake. "It is Maria of Mont Blanc!" the guides would cry, and the travellers halted to hear the story of her ascent and to refresh themselves.

The second woman, and the first lady to climb Mont Blanc, was a Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle d'Angeville. For years she had determined to make the attempt, but it was only in 1838, when she was 44 years of age, that she came to Chamonix with the intention of immediately setting out for the great mountain. She had many difficulties to surmount. The guides feared the responsibility of taking up a woman, many of the Chamonix people thought her mad, and while one was ready to offer a thousand francs to five that she would not reach the top, another was prepared to accept heavy odds that there would be a catastrophe. At last, however, all was ready, and she started. Two other parties offered to join her. She declined with thanks. After half an hour on the glacier she detached herself from the rope and would accept no help. This was far from being out of sheer bravado, it was simply that she desired to inspire confidence in her powers. During the night on the rocks of the Grands Mulets she suffered terribly from cold and could not snatch a moment's sleep. When the party stopped for breakfast at the Grand Plateau, she could eat nothing. At the Corridor, feverishness, and fearful thirst overcame her; she fell to the ground from weakness and drowsiness. After a little rest, however, she was able to go on, but at the Mur de la Cote she felt desperately ill. Violent palpitation seized on her and her limbs felt like lead. With a tremendous effort she moved on. The beatings of her heart became more suffocating, her pulse was too rapid to count, she could not take more than ten steps without stopping. One thing only remained strong in her—the will. During these frequent halts she heard the murmuring of talk between the guides, as in a dream. "We shall fail! Look at her, she has fallen asleep! Shall we try and carry her?" while Couttet cried, "If ever I find myself again with a lady on Mont Blanc!" At these words Mademoiselle d'Angeville, with a desperate effort, shook off her torpor and stood up. She clung with desperate energy to the one idea: "If I die," she said to the guides, "promise to carry me up there and bury me on the top!" And the men, stupified with such persistence, answered gravely, "Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, you shall go there, dead or alive!"

As she approached the top she felt better, and was able to advance without support, and when she stepped on to the summit, and knew that her great wish was at last accomplished, all sensation of illness vanished as if by enchantment.

"And now, mademoiselle, you shall go higher than Mont Blanc!" exclaimed the guides, and joining hands they lifted her above their shoulders.

One more ascent by a lady deserves mention here, that of Miss Stratton, on 31st January 1876. She was the first person to reach the summit of Mont Blanc in mid-winter.

It is difficult to understand why these early climbers of Mont Blanc, men as well as women, suffered so terribly from mountain sickness, a disease one rarely hears of nowadays in the Alps. The question is too vexed a one for me to discuss it here, but I may say that want of training and unsuitable food bring it on in most cases. "The stagnation of the air in valleys above the snow-line," was believed to produce it, and I cannot help thinking that this does have some effect. The first time I went up Mont Blanc I did not feel well on the Grand Plateau, but was all right when I reached the breezy ridge of the Bosses. The second time, ascending by the route on the Italian side of the peak, where there are no snowy valleys, I did not suffer at all. The third time I felt uncomfortable on the slope leading to the Corridor, but quite myself again above.

CHAPTER XVII
THE ASCENT OF A WALL OF ICE

Of all the writers on Alpine matters none has a more charming style, or has described his adventures in a more modest manner, than Sir Leslie Stephen. Perhaps the most delightful passages in his Playground of Europe are those in which he tells how, in company with the Messrs Mathews, he managed to get up the great wall of ice between the Mönch and the Eiger, known as the Eigerjoch. The Messrs Mathews had with them two Chamonix guides, while Mr Leslie Stephen had engaged the gigantic Oberlander Ulrich Lauener. In those days there was often keen rivalry—and something more—between French and German-speaking guides, and Lauener was apt to be rather an autocrat on the mountains. "As, however, he could not speak a word of French, nor they of German, he was obliged to convey his 'sentiments' in pantomime, which, perhaps, did not soften 'their vigour.' I was accordingly prepared for a few disputes next day.

"About four on the morning of 7th August we got off from the inn on the Wengern Alp, notwithstanding a few delays, and steered straight for the foot of the Eiger. In the early morning the rocks around the glacier and the lateral moraines were hard and slippery. Before long, however, we found ourselves well on the ice, near the central axis of the Eiger Glacier, and looking up at the great terrace-shaped ice-masses, separated by deep crevasses, which rose threateningly over our heads, one above another, like the defences of some vast fortification. And here began the first little dispute between Oberland and Chamouni. The Chamouni men proposed a direct assault on the network of crevasses above us. Lauener said that we ought to turn them by crossing to the south-west side, immediately below the Mönch. My friends and their guides forming a majority, and seeming to have little respect for the arguments urged by the minority, we gave in and followed them, with many muttered remarks from Lauener. We soon found ourselves performing a series of manœuvres like those required for the ascent of the Col du Géant. At times we were lying flat in little gutters on the faces of the séracs, worming ourselves along like boa-constrictors. At the next moment we were balancing ourselves on a knife-edge of ice between two crevasses, or plunging into the very bowels of the glacier, with a natural arch of ice meeting above our heads. I need not attempt to describe difficulties and dangers familiar to all ice-travellers. Like other such difficulties, they were exciting, and even rather amusing for a time, but, unfortunately, they seemed inclined to last rather too long. Some of the deep crevasses apparently stretched almost from side to side of the glacier, rending its whole mass into distorted fragments. In attempting to find a way through them, we seemed to be going nearly as far backwards as forwards, and the labyrinth in which we were involved was as hopelessly intricate after a long struggle as it had been at first. Moreover, the sun had long touched the higher snow-fields, and was creeping down to us step by step. As soon as it reached the huge masses amongst which we were painfully toiling, some of them would begin to jump about like hailstones in a shower, and our position would become really dangerous. The Chamouni guides, in fact, declared it to be dangerous already, and warned us not to speak, for fear of bringing some of the nicely-poised ice-masses down on our heads. On my translating this well-meant piece of advice to Lauener, he immediately selected the most dangerous looking pinnacle in sight, and mounting to the top of it sent forth a series of screams, loud enough, I should have thought, to bring down the top of the Mönch. They failed, however, to dislodge any séracs, and Lauener, going to the front, called to us to follow him. By this time we were all glad to follow any one who was confident enough to lead. Turning to our right, we crossed the glacier in a direction parallel to the deep crevasses, and therefore unobstructed by any serious obstacles, till we found ourselves immediately beneath the great cliffs of the Mönch. Our prospects changed at once. A great fold in the glacier produces a kind of diagonal pathway, stretching upwards from the point where we stood towards the rocks of the Eiger—not that it was exactly a carriage-road—but along the line which divides two different systems of crevasse, the glacier seemed to have been crushed into smaller fragments, producing, as it were, a kind of incipient macadamisation. The masses, instead of being divided by long regular trenches, were crumbled and jammed together so as to form a road, easy and pleasant enough by comparison with our former difficulties. Pressing rapidly up this rough path, we soon found ourselves in the very heart of the glacier, with a broken wilderness of ice on every side. We were in one of the grandest positions I have ever seen for observing the wonders of the ice-world; but those wonders were not all of an encouraging nature. For, looking up to the snow-fields now close above us, an obstacle appeared which made us think that all our previous labours had been in vain. From side to side of the glacier a vast chevaux de frise of blue ice-pinnacles struck up through the white layers of névé formed by the first plunge of the glacier down its waterfall of ice. Some of them rose in fantastic shapes—huge blocks balanced on narrow footstalks, and only waiting for the first touch of the sun to fall in ruins down the slope below. Others rose like church spires, or like square towers, defended by trenches of unfathomable depths. Once beyond this barrier we should be safe upon the highest plateau of the glacier at the foot of the last snow-slope. But it was obviously necessary to turn them by some judicious strategical movement. One plan was to climb the lower rocks of the Eiger; but, after a moment's hesitation, we fortunately followed Lauener towards the other side of the glacier, where a small gap between the séracs and the lower slopes of the Mönch seemed to be the entrance to a ravine that might lead us upwards. Such it turned out to be. Instead of the rough footing in which we had hitherto been unwillingly restricted, we found ourselves ascending a narrow gorge, with the giant cliffs of the Mönch on our right, and the toppling ice-pinnacles on our left. A beautifully even surface of snow, scarcely marked by a single crevasse, lay beneath our feet. We pressed rapidly up this strange little pathway, as it wound steeply upwards between the rocks and the ice, expecting at every moment to see it thin out, or break off at some impassable crevasse. It was, I presume, formed by the sliding of avalanches from the slopes of the Mönch. At any rate, to our delight, it led us gradually round the barrier of séracs, till in a few minutes we found ourselves on the highest plateau of the glacier, the crevasses fairly beaten, and a level plain of snow stretching from our feet to the last snow-slope.

"We were now standing on the edge of a small level plateau. One, and only one, gigantic crevasse of really surpassing beauty stretched right across it. This was, we guessed, some 300 feet deep, and its sides passed gradually into the lovely blues and greens of semi-transparent ice, whilst long rows and clusters of huge icicles imitated (as Lauener remarked) the carvings and ecclesiastical furniture of some great cathedral.

"To reach our pass, we had the choice either of at once attacking the long steep slopes which led directly to the shoulder of the Mönch, or of first climbing the gentle slope near the Eiger, and then forcing our way along the backbone of the ridge. We resolved to try the last plan first.

"Accordingly, after a hasty breakfast at 9.30, we started across our little snow-plain and commenced the ascent. After a short climb of no great difficulty, merely pausing to chip a few steps out of the hard crust of snow, we successively stepped safely on to the top of the ridge. As each of my predecessors did so, I observed that he first looked along the arête, then down the cliffs before him, and then turned with a very blank expression of face to his neighbour. From our feet the bare cliffs sank down, covered with loose rocks, but too steep to hold more than patches of snow, and presenting right dangerous climbing for many hundred feet towards the Grindelwald glaciers. The arête offered a prospect not much better: a long ridge of snow, sharp as the blade of a knife, was playfully alternated with great rocky teeth, striking up through their icy covering, like the edge of a saw. We held a council standing, and considered the following propositions:—First, Lauener coolly proposed, and nobody seconded, a descent of the precipices towards Grindelwald. This proposition produced a subdued shudder from the travellers and a volley of unreportable language from the Chamouni guides. It was liable, amongst other things, to the trifling objection that it would take us just the way we did not want to go. The Chamouni men now proposed that we should follow the arête. This was disposed of by Lauener's objection that it would take at least six hours. We should have had to cut steps down the slope and up again round each of the rocky teeth I have mentioned; and I believe that this calculation of time was very probably correct. Finally, we unanimously resolved upon the only course open to us—to descend once more into our little valley, and thence to cut our way straight up the long slopes to the shoulder of the Mönch.

"Considerably disappointed at this unexpected check, we retired to the foot of the slopes, feeling that we had no time to lose, but still hoping that a couple of hours more might see us at the top of the pass. It was just eleven as we crossed a small bergschrund and began the ascent. Lauener led the way to cut the steps, followed by the two other guides, who deepened and polished them up. Just as we started, I remarked a kind of bright tract drawn down the ice in front of us, apparently by the frozen remains of some small rivulet which had been trickling down it. I guessed it would take some fifty steps and half-an-hour's work to reach it. We cut about fifty steps, however, in the first half-hour, and were not a quarter of the way to my mark; and as even when there we should not be half-way to the top, matters began to look serious. The ice was very hard, and it was necessary, as Lauener observed, to cut steps in it as big as soup-tureens, for the result of a slip would in all probability have been that the rest of our lives would have been spent in sliding down a snow-slope, and that that employment would not have lasted long enough to become at all monotonous. Time slipped by, and I gradually became weary of a sound to which at first I always listened with pleasure—the chipping of the axe, and the hiss of the fragments as they skip down the long incline below us. Moreover, the sun was very hot, and reflected with oppressive power from the bright and polished surface of the ice. I could see that a certain flask was circulating with great steadiness amongst the guides, and the work of cutting the steps seemed to be extremely severe. I was counting the 250th step, when we at last reached the little line I had been so long watching, and it even then required a glance back at the long line of steps behind to convince me that we had in fact made any progress. The action of resting one's whole weight on one leg for about a minute, and then slowly transferring it to the other, becomes wearisome when protracted for hours. Still the excitement and interest made the time pass quickly. I was in constant suspense lest Lauener should pronounce for a retreat, which would have been not merely humiliating, but not improbably dangerous, amidst the crumbling séracs in the afternoon sun. I listened with some amusement to the low moanings of little Charlet, who was apparently bewailing his position to Croz, and being heartless chaffed in return. One or two measurements with a clinometer of Mathews' gave inclinations of 51° or 52°, and the slope was perhaps occasionally a little more.

"At last, as I was counting the 580th step, we reached a little patch of rock, and felt ourselves once more on solid ground, with no small satisfaction. Not that the ground was specially solid. It was a small crumbling patch of rock, and every stone we dislodged went bounding rapidly down the side of the slope, diminishing in apparent size till it disappeared in the bergschrund, hundreds of feet below. However, each of us managed to find some nook in which he could stow himself away, whilst the Chamouni men took their turn in front, and cut steps straight upwards to the top of the slope. By this means they kept along a kind of rocky rib, of which our patch was the lowest point, and we thus could occasionally get a footstep on rock instead of ice. Once on the top of the slope, we could see no obstacle intervening between us and the point over which our pass must lie.

"Meanwhile we meditated on our position. It was already four o'clock. After twelve hours' unceasing labour, we were still a long way on the wrong side of the pass. We were clinging to a ledge in the mighty snow-wall which sank sheer down below us and rose steeply above our heads. Beneath our feet the whole plain of Switzerland lay with a faint purple haze drawn over it like a veil, a few green sparkles just pointing out the Lake of Thun. Nearer, and apparently almost immediately below us, lay the Wengern Alp, and the little inn we had left twelve hours before, whilst we could just see the back of the labyrinth of crevasses where we had wandered so long. Through a telescope I could even distinguish people standing about the inn, who no doubt were contemplating our motions. As we rested, the Chamouni guides had cut a staircase up the slope, and we prepared to follow. It was harder work than before, for the whole slope was now covered with a kind of granular snow, and resembled a huge pile of hailstones. The hailstones poured into every footstep as it was cut, and had to be cleared out with hands and feet before we could get even a slippery foothold. As we crept cautiously up this treacherous staircase, I could not help reflecting on the lively bounds with which the stones and fragments of ice had gone spinning from our last halting place down to the yawning bergschrund below. We succeeded, however, in avoiding their example, and a staircase of about one hundred steps brought us to the top of the ridge, but at a point still at some distance from the pass. It was necessary to turn along the arête towards the Mönch. We were preparing to do this by keeping on the snow-ridge, when Lauener, jumping down about 6 feet on the side opposite to that by which we had ascended, lighted upon a little ledge of rock, and called to us to follow. He assured us that it was granite, and that therefore there was no danger of slipping. It was caused by the sun having melted the snow on the southern side of the ridge, so that it no longer quite covered the inclined plane of rock upon which it rested. It was narrow and treacherous enough in appearance at first; soon, however, it grew broader, and, compared with our ice-climb, afforded capital footing. The precipice beneath us thinned out as the Viescher Glacier rose towards our pass, and at last we found ourselves at the edge of a little mound of snow, through which a few plunging steps brought us, just at six o'clock, to the long-desired shoulder of the Mönch.

"I cannot describe the pleasure with which we stepped at last on to the little saddle of snow, and felt that we had won the victory."

CHAPTER XVIII
THE AIGUILLE DU DRU

Few mountains have been the object of such repeated attempts by experienced climbers to reach their summits, as was the rocky pinnacle of the Aiguille du Dru, at Chamonix. While the name of Whymper will always be associated with the Matterhorn, so will that of Clinton Dent be with the Aiguille du Dru, and the accounts given by him in his delightful little work, Above the Snow Line, of his sixteen unavailing scrambles on the peak, followed by the stirring description of how at last he got up it, are amongst the romances of mountaineering.

I have space for only a few extracts describing Mr Dent's early attempts, which even the non-climber would find very entertaining to read about in the work from which I quote. The Chamonix people, annoyed that foreign guides should monopolise the peak, threw cold water on the idea of ascending it, and were ready, if they got a chance, to deny that it had been ascended. An honourable exception to the attitude adopted by these gentry, was, however, furnished by that splendid guide, Edouard Cupelin, who always asserted that the peak was climbable, and into whose big mind no trace of jealousy was ever known to enter.

Very witty are some of the accounts of Mr Dent's earlier starts for the Aiguille du Dru. On one occasion, starting in the small hours of the morning from Chamonix, he reached the Montanvert at 3.30 A.M. "The landlord at once appeared in full costume," he writes; "indeed I observed that during the summer it was impossible to tell from his attire whether he had risen immediately from bed or no. Our friend had cultivated to great perfection the art of half sleeping during his waking hours—that is, during such time as he might be called upon to provide entertainment for man and beast. Now, at the Montanvert, during the tourists' season, this period extended over the whole twenty-four hours. It was necessary, therefore, in order that he might enjoy a proper physiological period of rest, for him to remain in a dozing state—a sort of æstival hybernation—for the whole time, which in fact he did; or else he was by nature a very dull person, and had actually a very restricted stock of ideas.

"The sight of a tourist with an ice-axe led by a kind of reflex process to the landlord's unburdening his mind with his usual remarks. Like other natives of the valley he had but two ideas of 'extraordinary' expeditions. 'Monsieur is going to the Jardin?' he remarked. 'No, monsieur isn't.' 'Then, beyond a doubt, monsieur will cross the Col du Géant?' he said, playing his trump card. 'No, monsieur will not.' 'Pardon—where does monsieur expect to go?' 'On the present occasion we go to try the Aiguille du Dru.' The landlord smiled in an aggravating manner. 'Does monsieur think he will get up?' 'Time will show.' 'Ah!' The landlord, who had a chronic cold in the head, searched for his pocket-handkerchief, but not finding it, modified the necessary sniff into one of derision." On this day the party did not get up, nor did they gain the summit a little later when they made another attempt. They then had with them a porter who gave occasion for an excellent bit of character-sketching. "He was," says Mr Dent, "as silent as an oyster, though a strong and skilful climber, and like an oyster when its youth is passed, he was continually on the gape." They mounted higher and higher, and began at last to think that success awaited them. "Old Franz chattered away to himself, as was his wont when matters went well, and on looking back on one occasion I perceived the strange phenomenon of a smile illuminating the porter's features. However, this worthy spoke no words of satisfaction, but pulled ever at his empty pipe.

"By dint of wriggling over a smooth sloping stone slab, we had got into a steep rock gully which promised to lead us to a good height. Burgener, assisted by much pushing and prodding from below, and aided on his own part by much snorting and some strong language, had managed to climb on to a great overhanging boulder that cut off the view from the rest of the party below. As he disappeared from sight we watched the paying out of the rope with as much anxiety as a fisherman eyes his vanishing line when the salmon runs. Presently the rope ceased to move, and we waited for a few moments in suspense. We felt that the critical moment of the expedition had arrived, and the fact that our own view was exceedingly limited, made us all the more anxious to hear the verdict. 'How does it look?' we called out. The answer came back in patois, a bad sign in such emergencies. For a minute or two an animated conversation was kept up; then we decided to take another opinion, and accordingly hoisted up our second guides. The chatter was redoubled. 'What does it look like?' we shouted again. 'Not possible from where we are,' was the melancholy answer, and in a tone that crushed at once all our previous elation. I could not find words at the moment to express my disappointment; but the porter could, and gallantly he came to the rescue. He opened his mouth for the first time and spoke, and he said very loud indeed that it was 'verdammt.' Precisely: that is just what it was."

"On a mountain such as we knew the Aiguille du Dru to be, it would not have been wise to make any attempt with a party of more than four. No doubt three—that is, an amateur with two guides—would have been better still, but I had, during the enforced inaction through which we had been passing, become so convinced of ultimate success, that I was anxious to find a companion to share it. Fortunately, J. Walker Hartley, a highly skilful and practised mountaineer, was at Chamouni, and it required but little persuasion to induce him to join our party. Seizing an opportunity one August day, when the rain had stopped for a short while, we decided to try once more, or, at any rate, to see what effects the climatic phases through which we had been passing had produced on the Aiguille. With Alexander Burgener and Andreas Maurer still as guides, we ascended once again the slopes by the side of the Charpoua Glacier, and succeeded in discovering a still more eligible site for a bivouac than on our previous attempts. A little before four the next morning we extracted each other from our respective sleeping bags, and made our way rapidly up the glacier. The snow still lay thick everywhere on the rocks, which were fearfully cold, and glazed with thin layers of slippery ice; but our purpose was very serious that day, and we were not to be deterred by anything short of unwarrantable risk. We intended the climb to be merely one of exploration, but were resolved to make it as thorough as possible, and with the best results. From the middle of the slope leading up to the ridge the guides went on alone, while we stayed to inspect and work out bit by bit the best routes over such parts of the mountain as lay within view. In an hour or two Burgener and Maurer came back to us, and the former invited me to go on with him back to the point from which he had just descended. His invitation was couched in gloomy terms, but there was a twinkle at the same time in his eye which it was easy to interpret—ce n'est que l'œil qui rit. We started off, and climbed without the rope up the way which was now so familiar, but which on this occasion, in consequence of the glazed condition of the rocks, was as difficult as it could well be; but for a growing conviction that the upper crags were not so bad as they looked, we should scarcely have persevered. 'Wait a little,' said Burgener, 'I will show you something presently.' We reached at last a great knob of rock close below the ridge, and for a long time sat a little distance apart silently staring at the precipices of the upper peak. I asked Burgener what it might be that he had to show me. He pointed to a little crack some way off, and begged that I would study it, and then fell again to gazing at it very hard himself. Though we scarcely knew it at the time this was the turning point of our year's climbing. Up to that moment I had only felt doubts as to the inaccessibility of the mountain. Now a certain feeling of confident elation began to creep over me. The fact is, that we gradually worked ourselves up into the right mental condition, and the aspect of a mountain varies marvellously according to the beholder's frame of mind. These same crags had been by each of us independently, at one time or another, deliberately pronounced impossible. They were in no better condition that day than usual, in fact, in much worse order than we had often seen them before. Yet, notwithstanding that good judges had ridiculed the idea of finding a way up the precipitous wall, the prospect looked different that day as turn by turn we screwed our determination up to the sticking point. Here and there we could clearly trace short bits of practicable rock ledges along which a man might walk, or over which at any rate he might transport himself, while cracks and irregularities seemed to develop as we looked. Gradually, uniting and communicating passages appeared to form. Faster and faster did our thoughts travel, and at last we rose and turned to each other. The same train of ideas had independently been passing through our minds. Burgener's face flushed, his eyes brightened, and he struck a great blow with his axe as we exclaimed almost together, 'It must, and it shall be done!'

"The rest of the day was devoted to bringing down the long ladder, which had previously been deposited close below the summit of the ridge, to a point much lower and nearer to the main peak. This ladder had not hitherto been of the slightest assistance on the rocks, and had, indeed, proved a source of constant anxiety and worry, for it was ever prone to precipitate its lumbering form headlong down the slope. We had, it is true, used it occasionally on the glacier to bridge over the crevasses, and had saved some time thereby. Still, we were loth to discard its aid altogether, and accordingly devoted much time and no little exertion to hauling it about and fixing it in a place of security. It was late in the evening before we had made all our preparations for the next assault and turned to the descent, which proved to be exceedingly difficult on this occasion. The snow had become very soft during the day; the late hour and the melting above caused the stones to fall so freely down the gully that we gave up that line of descent and made our way over the face. Often, in travelling down, we were buried up to the waist in soft snow overlying rock slabs, of which we knew no more than that they were very smooth and inclined at a highly inconvenient angle. It was imperative for one only to move at a time, and the perpetual roping and unroping was most wearisome. In one place it was necessary to pay out 150 feet of rope between one position of comparative security and the one next below it, till the individual who was thus lowered looked like a bait at the end of a deep sea-line. One step and the snow would crunch up in a wholesome manner and yield firm support. The next, and the leg plunged in as far as it could reach, while the submerged climber would, literally, struggle in vain to collect himself. Of course those above, to whom the duty of paying out the rope was entrusted, would seize the occasion to jerk as violently at the cord as a cabman does at his horse's mouth when he has misguided the animal round a corner. Now another step, and a layer of snow not more than a foot deep would slide off with a gentle hiss, exposing bare, black ice beneath, or treacherous loose stones. Nor were our difficulties at an end when we reached the foot of the rocks, for the head of the glacier had fallen away from the main mass of the mountain, even as an ill-constructed bow-window occasionally dissociates itself from the façade of a jerry-built villa, and some very complicated manœuvring was necessary in order to reach the snow slopes. It was not till late in the evening that we reached Chamouni; but it would have mattered nothing to us even had we been benighted, for we had seen all that we had wanted to see, and I would have staked my existence now on the possibility of ascending the peak. But the moment was not yet at hand, and our fortress held out against surrender to the very last by calling in its old allies, sou'-westerly winds and rainy weather. The whirligig of time had not yet revolved so as to bring us in our revenge.

"Perhaps the monotonous repetition of failures on the peak influences my recollection of what took place subsequently to the expedition last mentioned. Perhaps (as I sometimes think even now) an intense desire to accomplish our ambition ripened into a realisation of actual occurrences which really were only efforts of imagination. This much I know, that when on 7th September we sat once more round a blazing wood fire at the familiar bivouac gazing pensively at the crackling fuel, it seemed hard to persuade one's self that so much had taken place since our last attempt. Leaning back against the rock and closing the eyes for a moment it seemed but a dream, whose reality could be disproved by an effort of the will, that we had gone to Zermatt in a storm and hurried back again in a drizzle on hearing that some other climbers were intent on our peak; that we had left Chamouni in rain and tried, for the seventeenth time, in a tempest; that matters had seemed so utterly hopeless, seeing that the season was far advanced and the days but short, as to induce me to return to England, leaving minute directions that if the snow should chance to melt and the weather to mend I might be summoned back at once; that after eight-and-forty hours of sojourn in the fogs of my native land an intimation had come by telegraph of glad tidings; that I had posted off straightway by grande vitesse back to Chamouni; that I had arrived there at four in the morning."

Once more the party mounted the now familiar slopes above their bivouac, and somehow on this occasion they all felt that something definite would come of the expedition, even if they did not on that occasion actually reach the top.

I give the remainder of the account in Mr Dent's own words:

"Now, personal considerations had to a great extent to be lost sight of in the desire to make the most of the day, and the result was that Hartley must have had a very bad time of it. Unfortunately, perhaps for him, he was by far the lightest member of the party; accordingly we argued that he was far less likely to break the rickety old ladder than we were. Again, as the lightest weight, he was most conveniently lowered down first over awkward places when they occurred.

"In the times which are spoken of as old, and which have also, for some not very definable reason, the prefix good, if you wanted your chimneys swept you did not employ an individual now dignified by the title of a Ramoneur, but you adopted the simpler plan of calling in a master sweep. This person would come attended by a satellite, who wore the outward form of a boy and was gifted with certain special physical attributes. Especially was it necessary that the boy should be of such a size and shape as to fit nicely to the chimney, not so loosely on the one hand as to have any difficulty in ascending by means of his knees and elbows, nor so tightly on the other as to run any peril of being wedged in. The boy was then inserted into the chimney and did all the work, while the master remained below or sat expectant on the roof to encourage, to preside over, and subsequently to profit by, his apprentice's exertions. We adopted much the same principle. Hartley, as the lightest, was cast for the rôle of the jeune premier, or boy, while Burgener and I on physical grounds alone filled the part, however unworthily, of the master sweep. As a play not infrequently owes its success to one actor so did our jeune premier, sometimes very literally, pull us through on the present occasion. Gallantly indeed did he fulfil his duty. Whether climbing up a ladder slightly out of the perpendicular, leaning against nothing in particular and with overhanging rocks above; whether let down by a rope tied round his waist, so that he dangled like the sign of the 'Golden Fleece' outside a haberdasher's shop, or hauled up smooth slabs of rock with his raiment in an untidy heap around his neck; in each and all of these exercises he was equally at home, and would be let down or would come up smiling. One place gave us great difficulty. An excessively steep wall of rock presented itself and seemed to bar the way to a higher level. A narrow crack ran some little way up the face, but above the rock was slightly overhanging, and the water trickling from some higher point had led to the formation of a huge bunch of gigantic icicles, which hung down from above. It was necessary to get past these, but impossible to cut them away, as they would have fallen on us below. Burgener climbed a little way up the face, planted his back against it, and held on to the ladder in front of him, while I did the same just below: by this means we kept the ladder almost perpendicular, but feared to press the highest rung heavily against the icicles above lest we should break them off. We now invited Hartley to mount up. For the first few steps it was easy enough; but the leverage was more and more against us as he climbed higher, seeing that he could not touch the rock, and the strain on our arms below was very severe. However, he got safely to the top and disappeared from view. The performance was a brilliant one, but, fortunately, had not to be repeated; as on a subsequent occasion, by a deviation of about 15 or 20 feet, we climbed to the same spot in a few minutes with perfect ease and without using any ladder at all. On this occasion, however, we must have spent fully an hour while Hartley performed his feats, which were not unworthy of a Japanese acrobat. Every few feet of the mountain at this part gave us difficulty, and it was curious to notice how, on this the first occasion of travelling over the rock face, we often selected the wrong route in points of detail. We ascended from 20 to 25 feet, then surveyed right and left, up and down, before going any further. The minutes slipped by fast, but I have no doubt now that if we had had time we might have ascended to the final arête on this occasion. We had often to retrace our steps, and whenever we did so found some slightly different line by which time could have been saved. Though the way was always difficult nothing was impossible, and when the word at last was given, owing to the failing light, to descend, we had every reason to be satisfied with the result of the day's exploration. There seemed to be little doubt that we had traversed the most difficult part of the mountain, and, indeed, we found on a later occasion, with one or two notable exceptions, that such was the case.

"However, at the time we did not think that, even if it were possible, it would be at all advisable to make our next attempt without a second guide. A telegram had been sent to Kaspar Maurer, instructing him to join us at the bivouac with all possible expedition. The excitement was thus kept up to the very last, for we knew not whether the message might have reached him, and the days of fine weather were precious.

"It was late in the evening when we reached again the head of the glacier, and the point where we had left the feeble creature who had started with us as a second guide. On beholding us once more he wept copiously, but whether his tears were those of gratitude for release from the cramped position in which he had spent his entire day, or of joy at seeing us safe again, or whether they were the natural overflow of an imbecile intellect stirred by any emotion whatever, it were hard to say; at any rate he wept, and then fell to a description of some interesting details concerning the proper mode of bringing up infants, and the duties of parents towards their children; the most important of which, in his estimation, was that the father of a family should run no risk whatever on a mountain. Reaching our bivouac, we looked anxiously down over the glacier for any signs of Kaspar Maurer. Two or three parties were seen crawling homewards towards the Montanvert over the ice-fields, but no signs of our guide were visible. As the shades of night, however, were falling, we were able indistinctly to see in the far-off distance a little black dot skipping over the Mer de Glace with great activity. Most eagerly did we watch the apparition, and when finally it headed in our direction, and all doubt was removed as to the personality, we felt that our constant ill-luck was at last on the eve of changing. However, it was not till two days later that we left Chamouni once more for the nineteenth, and, as it proved, for the last time to try the peak.

"On 11th September we sat on the rocks a few feet above the camping-place. Never before had we been so confident of success. The next day's climb was no longer to be one of exploration. We were to start as early as the light would permit, and we were to go up and always up, if necessary till the light should fail. Possibly we might have succeeded long before if we had had the same amount of determination to do so that we were possessed with on this occasion. We had made up our minds to succeed, and felt as if all our previous attempts had been but a sort of training for this special occasion. We had gone so far as to instruct our friends below to look out for us on the summit between twelve and two the next day. We had even gone to the length of bringing a stick wherewith to make a flagstaff on the top. Still one, and that a very familiar source of disquietude, harassed us as our eyes turned anxiously to the west. A single huge band of cloud hung heavily right across the sky, and looked like a harbinger of evil, for it was of a livid colour above, and tinged with a deep crimson red below. My companion was despondent at the prospect it suggested, and the guides tapped their teeth with their forefingers when they looked in that direction; but it was suggested by a more sanguine person that its form and very watery look suggested a Band of Hope. An insinuating smell of savoury soup was wafted up gently from below—

'Stealing and giving odour.'

We took courage; then descended to the tent, and took sustenance.

"There was no difficulty experienced in making an early start the next day, and the moment the grey light allowed us to see our way we set off. On such occasions, when the mind is strung up to a high pitch of excitement, odd and trivial little details and incidents fix themselves indelibly on the memory. I can recall as distinctly now, as if it had only happened a moment ago, the exact tone of voice in which Burgener, on looking out of the tent, announced that the weather would do. Burgener and Kaspar Maurer were now our guides, for our old enemy with the family ties had been paid off and sent away with a flea in his ear—an almost unnecessary adjunct, as anyone who had slept in the same tent with him could testify. Notwithstanding that Maurer was far from well, and, rather weak, we mounted rapidly at first, for the way was by this time familiar enough, and we all meant business.

"Our position now was this. By our exploration on the last occasion we had ascertained that it was possible to ascend to a great height on the main mass of the mountain. From the slope of the rocks, and from the shape of the mountain, we felt sure that the final crest would be easy enough. We had then to find a way still up the face, from the point where we had turned back on our last attempt, to some point on the final ridge of the mountain. The rocks on this part we had never been able to examine very closely, for it is necessary to cross well over to the south-eastern face while ascending from the ridge between the Aiguille du Dru and the Aiguille Verte. A great projecting buttress of rock, some two or three hundred feet in height, cuts off the view of that part of the mountain over which we now hoped to make our way. By turning up straight behind this buttress, we hoped to hit off and reach the final crest just above the point where it merges into the precipitous north-eastern wall visible from the Chapeau. This part of the mountain can only be seen from the very head of the Glacier de la Charpoua just under the mass of the Aiguille Verte. But this point of view is too far off for accurate observations, and the strip of mountain was practically, therefore, a terra incognita to us.

"We followed the gully running up from the head of the glacier towards the ridge above mentioned, keeping well to the left. Before long it was necessary to cross the gully on to the main peak. To make the topography clearer a somewhat prosaic and domestic simile may be employed. The Aiguille du Dru and the Aiguille Verte are connected by a long sharp ridge, towards which we were now climbing; and this ridge is let in, as it were, into the south-eastern side of the Aiguille du Dru, much as a comb may be stuck into the middle of a hairbrush, the latter article representing the main peak. Here we employed the ladder which had been placed in the right position the day previously. Right glad were we to see the rickety old structure, which had now spent four years on the mountain, and was much the worse for it. It creaked and groaned dismally under our weight, and ran sharp splinters into us at all points of contact, but yet there was a certain companionship about the old ladder, and we seemed almost to regret that it was not destined to share more in our prospective success. A few steps on and we came to a rough cleft some five-and-twenty feet in depth, which had to be descended. A double rope was fastened to a projecting crag, and we swung ourselves down as if we were barrels of split peas going into a ship's hold; then to the ascent again, and the excitement waxed stronger as we drew nearer to the doubtful part of the mountain. Still, we did not anticipate insuperable obstacles; for I think we were possessed with a determination to succeed, which is a sensation often spoken of as a presentiment of success. A short climb up an easy broken gully, and of a sudden we seemed to be brought to a stand still. A little ledge at our feet curled round a projecting crag on the left. 'What are we to do now?' said Burgener, but with a smile on his face that left no doubt as to the answer. He lay flat down on the ledge and wriggled round the projection, disappearing suddenly from view, as if the rock had swallowed him up. A shout proclaimed that his expectations had not been deceived, and we were bidden to follow; and follow we did, sticking to the flat face of the rock with all our power, and progressing like the skates down the glass sides of an aquarium tank. When the last man joined us we found ourselves all huddled together on a very little ledge indeed, while an overhanging rock above compelled us to assume the anomalous attitude enforced on the occupant of a little-ease dungeon. What next? An eager look up solved part of the doubt. 'There is the way,' said Burgener, leaning back to get a view. 'Oh, indeed,' we answered. No doubt there was a way, and we were glad to hear that it was possible to get up it. The attractions of the route consisted of a narrow flat gully plastered up with ice, exceeding straight and steep, and crowned at the top with a pendulous mass of enormous icicles. The gully resembled a half-open book standing up on end. Enthusiasts in rock-climbing who have ascended the Riffelhorn from the Gorner Glacier side will have met with a similar gully, but, as a rule, free from ice, which, in the present instance, constituted the chief difficulty. The ice, filling up the receding angle from top to bottom, rendered it impossible to find handhold on the rocks, and it was exceedingly difficult to cut steps in such a place, for the slabs of ice were prone to break away entire. However, the guides said they could get up, and asked us to keep out of the way of chance fragments of ice which might fall down as they ascended. So we tucked ourselves away on one side, and they fell to as difficult a business as could well be imagined. The rope was discarded, and slowly they worked up, their backs and elbows against one sloping wall, their feet against the other. But the angle was too wide to give security to this position, the more especially that with shortened axes they were compelled to hack out enough of the ice to reveal the rock below. In such places the ice is but loosely adherent, being raised up from the face much as pie-crust dissociates itself from the fruit beneath under the influence of the oven. Strike lightly with the axe, and a hollow sound is yielded without much impression on the ice; strike hard, and the whole mass breaks away. But the latter method is the right one to adopt, though it necessitates very hard work. No steps are really reliable when cut in ice of this description.

"The masses of ice, coming down harder and harder as they ascended without intermission, showed how they were working, and the only consolation we had during a time that we felt to be critical, was that the guides were not likely to expend so much labour unless they thought that some good result would come of it. Suddenly there came a sharp shout and cry; then a crash as a great slab of ice, falling from above, was dashed into pieces at our feet and leaped into the air; then a brief pause, and we knew not what would happen next. Either the gully had been ascended or the guides had been pounded, and failure here might be failure altogether. It is true that Hartley and I had urged the guides to find a way some little distance to the right of the line on which they were now working; but they had reported that, though easy below, the route we had pointed out was impossible above.[10] A faint scratching noise close above us, as of a mouse perambulating behind a wainscot. We look up. It is the end of a rope. We seize it, and our pull from below is answered by a triumphant yell from above as the line is drawn taut. Fastening the end around my waist, I started forth. The gully was a scene of ruin, and I could hardly have believed that two axes in so short a time could have dealt so much destruction. Nowhere were the guides visible, and in another moment there was a curious sense of solitariness as I battled with the obstacles, aided in no small degree by the rope. The top of the gully was blocked up by a great cube of rock, dripping still where the icicles had just been broken off. The situation appeared to me to demand deliberation, though it was not accorded. 'Come on,' said voices from above. 'Up you go,' said a voice from below. I leaned as far back as I could, and felt about for a handhold. There was none. Everything seemed smooth. Then right, then left; still none. So I smiled feebly to myself, and called out, 'Wait a minute.' This was, of course, taken as an invitation to pull vigorously, and, struggling and kicking like a spider irritated by tobacco smoke, I topped the rock, and lent a hand on the rope for Hartley to follow. Then we learnt that a great mass of ice had broken away under Maurer's feet while they were in the gully, and that he must have fallen had not Burgener pinned him to the rock with one hand. From the number of times that this escape was described to us during that day and the next, I am inclined to think that it was rather a near thing. At the time, and often since, I have questioned myself as to whether we could have got up this passage without the rope let down from above. I think either of us could have done it in time with a companion. It was necessary for two to be in the gully at the same time, to assist each other. It was necessary, also, to discard the rope, which in such a place could only be a source of danger. But no amateur should have tried the passage on that occasion without confidence in his own powers, and without absolute knowledge of the limit of his own powers. If the gully had been free from ice it would have been much easier.

"'The worst is over now,' said Burgener. I was glad to hear it, but looking upwards, had my doubts. The higher we went the bigger the rocks seemed to be. Still there was a way, and it was not so very unlike what I had, times out of mind, pictured to myself in imagination. Another tough scramble, and we stood on a comparatively extensive ledge. With elation we observed that we had now climbed more than half of the only part of the mountain of the nature of which we were uncertain. A few steps on and Burgener grasped me suddenly by the arm. 'Do you see the great red rock up yonder?' he whispered, hoarse with excitement— 'in ten minutes we shall be there and on the arête, and then——' Nothing could stop us now; but a feverish anxiety to see what lay beyond, to look on the final slope which we knew must be easy, impelled us on, and we worked harder than ever to overcome the last few obstacles. The ten minutes expanded into something like thirty before we really reached the rock. Of a sudden the mountain seemed to change its form. For hours we had been climbing the hard, dry rocks. Now these appeared suddenly to vanish from under our feet, and once again our eyes fell on snow which lay thick, half hiding, half revealing, the final slope of the ridge. A glance along it showed that we had not misjudged. Even the cautious Maurer admitted that, as far as we could see, all appeared promising. And now, with the prize almost within our grasp, a strange desire to halt and hang back came on. Burgener tapped the rock with his axe, and we seemed somehow to regret that the way in front of us must prove comparatively easy. Our foe had almost yielded, and it appeared something like cruelty to administer the final coup de grâce. We could already anticipate the half-sad feeling with which we should reach the top itself. It needed but little to make the feeling give way. Some one cried 'Forward,' and instantly we were all in our places again, and the leader's axe crashed through the layers of snow into the hard blue ice beneath. A dozen steps, and then a short bit of rock scramble; then more steps along the south side of the ridge, followed by more rock, and the ridge beyond, which had been hidden for a minute or two, stretched out before us again as we topped the first eminence. Better and better it looked as we went on. 'See there,' cried Burgener suddenly, 'the actual top!'

"There was no possibility of mistaking the two huge stones we had so often looked at from below. They seemed, in the excitement of the moment, misty and blurred for a brief space, but grew clear again as I passed my hand over my eyes, and seemed to swallow something. A few feet below the pinnacles and on the left was one of those strange arches formed by a great transverse boulder, so common near the summits of these aiguilles, and through the hole we could see blue sky. Nothing could lay beyond, and, still better, nothing could be above. On again, while we could scarcely stand still in the great steps the leader set his teeth to hack out. Then there came a short troublesome bit of snow scramble, where the heaped-up cornice had fallen back from the final rock. There we paused for a moment, for the summit was but a few feet from us, and Hartley, who was ahead, courteously allowed me to unrope and go on first. In a few seconds I clutched at the last broken rocks, and hauled myself up on to the sloping summit. There for a moment I stood alone gazing down on Chamouni. The holiday dream of five years was accomplished; the Aiguille du Dru was climbed. Where in the wide world will you find a sport able to yield pleasure like this?"