youth and energy, that we might spend a second night out and do a sort of right and left barrel arrangement—climb the Requin one day and the Plan the next—was regarded with distinct approval.
A consultation with the map, and our collective recollections of what may be seen on the way over the Col du Géant, decided us to camp on some nameless rocks a little below the Petit Rognon, where the more sanguine spirits averred we should find grass and other untold luxuries.
The next day we began our preparations directly after breakfast, and the elder members of the party, with the accumulated wisdom of years, chartered a porter to carry their share of the baggage, but Hastings, with the muscles of Hercules and the imprudence of youth, loaded a huge bag, and, in addition, easily showed us the way to the foot of the rocks leading up to our proposed bivouac.
From this point a remarkable desire to enjoy the view became manifest, both in the party as a whole, and in its individual constituents. On the rare occasions when we were not all seated on a flat stone admiring the prospect in concert, four scattered wanderers might be seen leaning on their axes, wrapped in serene contemplation of the glories of a steep slope of screes. Progress was consequently slow, and it was not till 2.35 p.m. that we straggled on to a pleasant little grassy valley. As each member of the party reached this
