easy ice slope, covered with some fairly adherent snow, six inches or more in depth. The Tartar found no difficulty in following in Zurfluh's steps, but, unluckily, he waxed impatient at our slow progress, and, without a hint of what he was about to do, stepped boldly out on to the slope. The result may be imagined. In an instant he was on his back, slithering, snake-like, amongst a mass of hissing snow, leaving a long streak of gleaming ice behind him. Immediately in front yawned the open Bergschrund, and Zurfluh's "Herr Gott! er ist verloren" seemed inevitably true. By some extraordinary luck he was shot head over heels across the chasm and came to a stop in the soft snow beyond. We then saw him, much to our relief, pick himself up and begin to dust the snow from his clothes—from which we rightly inferred that he was neither frightened nor hurt. He afterwards sat down contentedly on the snow and enjoyed a quiet rest while we laboriously hacked and hewed our way down to him. Once on the névé, Zurfluh took out the rope and the Tartar was put into efficient leading-strings.
Crossing the smooth basin of the glacier, we found ourselves above a great ice fall. As the native pass of the Bashil led on to this same basin, it was obvious that an easy route must lie on one or other of the banks of the glacier. Unluckily we decided to try the left bank. We got on to the
