at the overhanging ledge from which gigantic
icicles were hanging, a shock of alarm thrilled his little breast. This
was increased by the falling of one of the icicles, which went like a
blue javelin into the crevasse beside him. Gillie thought of shouting
to warn Mr Slingsby of his danger, but before he could do so he was
startled by an appalling yell. At the same moment part of the ice
overhead gave way, and he beheld the artist descending. He was stopped
with a sudden jerk, as the rope tightened, and remained suspended in the
air, while his coat and colour-box accompanied icicles and snow-blocks
into the abyss below. A second later and the struggling artist's head
appeared to fall off, but it was only his hat.

Gillie had by this time recovered himself so far as to be able to add
his piercing shrieks for help to the cries of the artist, and well was
it that day for Mr Slingsby that Gillie had, since the years of
infancy, practised his lungs to some purpose in terrifying cats and
defying "Bobbies" in the streets of London.

"Oh, sir! sir!--I say--hi!" he cried, panting and glaring up.

"Eh? what? Hah!" gasped Slingsby, panting and glaring down.

"Don't kick like that sir; pray don't," cried Gillie in agonised tones,
"you'll start the boulder wot yer fast to, if you don't keep still."

"Oh!" groaned the artist and instantly hung limp and motionless, in
which condition he remained while Gillie ran towards the place where he
had left the rest of the party, jumping and slipping and falling and
yelling over the ice like a maniac in blue and buttons!

"D'ee hear that?" exclaimed Captain Wopper with a startled look, as he
and his companions busied themselves packing up their instruments.

Antoine Grennon heard it but made no reply. He was familiar with cries
of alarm. Turning abruptly he dashed off at full speed in the direction
whence the cries came. The Captain and Professor instantly followed;
Lawrence overtook and passed them. In a few minutes they met the
terrified boy, who, instead of waiting for them and wasting time by
telling what was wrong, turned sharp round, gave one wild wave of his
hand, and ran straight back to the ledge from which poor Slingsby hung.
Stout willing arms were soon pulling cautiously on the rope, and in a
few minutes more the artist lay upon the safe ice, almost speechless
from terror, and with a deadly pallor on his brow.

Strange to say the indomitable artist had held on tight