the figure to the face of the mountain instead of the valley. Higher
up we came to shoots or rivers of frozen snow; the inclination of the
ice being extremely steep and the surface smooth, Franz crossed first,
making marks with his pole for our feet. He then directed us to look
neither above nor below us, but only to our feet, for should we fall
nothing could save us from sliding down the ice and being dashed
against the rocks or the stumps of trees beneath. Passing the first in
safety, we found the next less formidable, while the danger was
diminished in proportion to the experience we acquired.

Once over, Franz told us how his father was accustomed to descend the
ice shoot; planting his heels firmly in the snow and placing his pole
under his right arm and leaning the entire weight of his body upon it
he came down with the swiftness of an arrow, his body almost in a
sitting posture, his heels and the spiked end of his pole alone
touching the ice and deeply indenting it.

"It happened," said Franz, "that my father was showing a small company
of travellers to the summit, when a sudden fancy seized one of them to
make the descent in that way. My father expostulated, and told him
that it required practice and skill, that but few of the guides would
undertake it. He would not be deterred, feeling, as he said, sure that
he could do anything performed by another. Seeing that he was
determined, my father helped him to adjust his pole, and then shut his
eyes."

"And what then?" I asked, as Franz stopped and looked in the direction
of the Mer de Glace.

"There was no help for him," said Franz; "he was buried at the foot
of the mountain."

Having reached the summit, the scene that burst upon us was sublime in
the highest degree; immediately beneath was the Mer de Glace, a broad
river of ice running nearly forty miles up into the Alps; to the north
the green valley of Chamouni, to the south the gigantic barriers that
separate Savoy from Piedmont, and around us inaccessible peaks and
mountains of eternal snow, finely contrasting with the deep blue of
the heavens; while the roar of cataracts and the thunder of avalanches
were the only sounds that broke upon the profound stillness of the
terrible solitude.

On the summit of the mountain we found an inn or hospice. We entered
and warmed ourselves, neither did we refuse the black bread and glass
of sour wine that were presently brought to us. As we sat by the fire
a small tabl