through the icy hours, as we sat huddled on a tiny ledge. And when, despite all efforts, sleep stealthily approached, Slingsby's strong arm wrapping round me and holding me on to my narrow perch—there was naught between my back and Chamonix, eight thousand feet below—still seems a sure defence from peril. It was not, doubtless, unalloyed pleasure, yet in after years the memory of trusty comrades who, when in evil plight,
"... ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads . . ."
is an enduring gain which enters into one's life, and which may, perchance, even dull the edge of sorrow in those long nights when the platitudes of the lowlands seem but dust and ashes.
Amid the flicker of the winter fire I can still see the swing of Slingsby's axe, as, through the day that followed, he hewed our way ever downwards towards the sun-lit pastures where cow-bells tinkle and where merry brooklets ripple amongst the stones, towards friends for whose glad welcome our very souls were pining. I can still hear him saying, as we scrambled over the "bad bit"[1] at the head of the
- ↑ About fifteen feet at the head of this couloir actually overhangs. The ice has, in fact, been formed by water dripping from the slopes above, and it has frozen into a sort of bulging cornice. Happily this overhanging formation has caused the water to freeze in a more or less hollow fashion, so that here
