e was on the famous ice-ridge; and nothing so
formidable, so terrifying, had even entered into his dreams during his
sleep upon the rocks where he had bivouacked. It thinned to a mere sharp
edge, a line without breadth of cold blue ice, and it stretched away
through the air for a great distance until it melted suddenly into the
face of the mountain. On the left hand an almost vertical slope of ice
dropped to depths which Hine did not dare to fathom with his eyes; on
the right there was no slope at all; a wall of crumbling snow descended
from the edge straight as a weighted line. On neither side could the
point of the ax be driven in to preserve the balance. Walter Hine
uttered a whimpering cry:

"I shall fall! I shall fall!"

Garratt Skinner, astride of the ridge, looked over his shoulder.

"Sit down," he cried, sharply. But Walter Hine dared not. He stood, all
his courage gone, tottering on the narrow top of the wall, afraid to
stoop, lest his knees should fail him altogether and his feet slip from
beneath him. To bend down until his hands could rest upon the ice, and
meanwhile to keep his feet--no, he could not do it. He stood trembling,
his face distorted with fear, and his body swaying a little from side to
side. Garratt Skinner called sharply to Pierre Delouvain.

"Quick, Pierre."

There was no time for Garratt Skinner to return; but he gathered himself
together on the ridge, ready for a spring. Had Walter Hine toppled over,
and swung down the length of the rope, as at any moment he might have
done, Garratt Skinner was prepared. He would have jumped down the
opposite side of the ice-arete, though how either he or Walter Hine could
have regained the ridge he could not tell. Would any one of the party
live to return to Courmayeur and tell the tale? But Garratt Skinner knew
the risk he took, had counted it up long before ever he brought Walter
Hine to Chamonix, and thought it worth while. He did not falter now. All
through the morning, indeed, he had been taking risks, risks of which
Walter Hine did not dream; with so firm and yet so delicate a step he had
moved from crack to crack, from ice-step up to ice-step; with so obedient
a response of his muscles, he had drawn himself up over the rounded rocks
from ledge to ledge. He shouted again to Pierre Delouvain, and at the
same moment began carefully to work backward along the ice-arete. Pierre,
however, hurried; Walter Hine heard the guide's voice behind him, felt