which made the party seem, as Saxe said, like so many ants walking about in a barrel of loaf sugar.

Then there was a smoother stretch, all longitudinal furrows, up which they passed fairly well—that is to say, with only a few falls—till they went round a curve; and there they paused, breathless and wondering.

“Why, that was only a peep down below,” cried Saxe. “Look, Mr Dale! look!”

He had cause to exclaim, for from where they stood they had an opening before them right up a side valley running off from the glacier at a sharp angle. This, too, was filled by a glacier, a tributary of the one they were upon, and with the sides of the minor valley covered with snow wherever the slope was sufficient to hold it. Beyond rose peak after peak, flashing pure and white—higher and higher; and even the hollows between them filled with soft-looking pillows and cushions of dazzling snow.

“Those are the mountains you told me about, then?” cried Saxe.

“Some of the outposts, lad. There are others far greater, miles behind those; and you are now having your first genuine look into wonderland.”

“I never thought it was like this.”

“No one can imagine how wonderful the mountains are,” said the guide solemnly. “I looked up at them as a little child, and I have been up amongst them from a boy, while I am now thirty-five; and yet they are always changing and ever new. Sometimes they are all light and sunshine, though full of hidden dangers. Sometimes they are wild and black and angry, when the wind shrieks and the lightning flashes about their shattered heads, and the thunders roar. Yes, young herr, you never thought it was half so wonderful as this. Shall we go on?”

“I was thinking,” said Dale. “I only meant to come a little way to-day, and let my companion have a glimpse of what is before him; so we will not go much farther, as it is so far back to the chalet.”

“If the herr does not mind simple fare and a bed of clean hay, we could sleep at Andregg’s to-night, and be ready for a start in the morning early.”

“The very thing,” said Dale. “How long will it take us to get from here to Andregg’s?”

“An hour,” said the guide; “so we have several good hours before us to go on up the glacier, or to cross over the valley ridge, and come back down the next.”

“Can we go up the glacier for another mile,” said Dale, “and then cross?”

“Easily.”

“Then we will do that.”

The ascent of the glacier-filled valley was continued, and they toiled on. A mile on level ground would have meant a sharp quarter of an hour’s walk; here it meant a slow climb, slipping and floundering over ice, splashing through tiny rivulets that veined the more level parts, and the avoidance of transverse cracks extending for a few yards. Sometimes they had to make for the left, sometimes the right bank of the frozen river; and at last, as they were standing waiting while the guide made his observations as to the best way of avoiding some obstacle in their front, there was a sharp, clear crack.

“What’s that?” said Saxe quickly.

“Stand back!” cried the guide. “No! quick—to me!”

They stepped forward to his side; and as, in obedience to a sign, they turned, there was a peculiarly harsh, rending noise, a singing as of escaping air, and to their astonishment, just where they had been standing the ice began to open in a curious, wavy, zigzag line, gradually extending to right and left. At first it was a faint crack, not much more than large enough to admit a knife-blade; but as they watched it slowly opened, till it was an inch—a foot—across, and then all sound ceased, and they could look down for a short distance before the sides came together, the whole forming a long wedge-shaped hollow.

“The opening of a crevasse,” said the guide gravely. “It will go on growing bigger, till it will be dangerous.”

“You are lucky, Saxe,” said Dale. “You have had a fall of rock, seen an ice-cave and the birth of a big river, heard seracs fall, and now watched the opening of a crevasse. We must have that avalanche before we go back.”

“When we get up on the ridge we shall see the Bluthenhorn,” said Melchior; “the afternoon sun will be full on the high slopes, and we shall hear some of the ice-fall. Hark!”

He held up his hand, and they stood listening to a faintly booming sound, evidently at a great distance before them.

“Was that one?”

“Yes; but right over among the mountains, herr. It was a great fall, though, or we should not have heard it here.”

He plodded steadily on, and Saxe noted that he kept his eyes down and seemed to make a business of every step, measuring exactly where he should plant it, and keeping hold, as it were, with his other foot till he was sure that his new step was safe. Not that this took long, but it appeared to be all carefully studied, and the boy learned that such caution must be the result of experience and mean safety in his arduous climbing.

The glacier wound in serpentine fashion along the valley, growing wilder and grander as they ascended. There were masses of piled-up ice, and crevasses into whose blue depths they peered as they listened to the hollow echoing sounds of running water. Some of these were stepped over in an ordinary stride, some had to be jumped; and, though the distance was short, Saxe felt a curious shrinking sensation as he leaped across a four or five feet rift, whose sides were clear blue ice, going right down to what would in all probability mean death to one who fell. Then on again, till it seemed to the lad that they must have journeyed that one mile upward several times over; and, at last, before them there was snow filling up all the irregularities, and offering them a soft smooth path.

It was not snow, though, such as he had seen in England, for it looked more like a thick layer of softened hailstones, which he could scoop up and let fall separately, or scatter at large to glisten in the sun, while upon trying it the particles crackled and crushed under their feet, but felt pretty firm.

“What are you stopping for?” said Dale.

“I don’t quite like the look of the snow on beyond this first old part,” said the guide. “You have no alpenstock or ice-axe either.”

“Shall we give up going any farther to-day?” said Dale.

“No, herr: because I want to get round that piece of rock which runs out from the side. Beyond that there is a couloir running right up to the ridge, and it will be the easiest place for us to mount.”

As he spoke he took the coil of rope from across his chest, and began to unfasten the end.

“Is that necessary?” asked Dale; while Saxe looked wonderingly on.

“Who knows, herr? It is the duty of a guide to take care his people run no risks. I want to be a good guide to mine.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Saxe.

“Rope ourselves together in case the snow covers a crevasse.”

“But if one goes through, he’ll pull down the others,” cried Saxe. “Is that wise?”

“He will not pull down the others,” said Dale, “for they will pull him out.”

Melchior said nothing, but slowly unfastened his rope as they stood there with their feet in the depth of a rigid winter and their heads in the height of summer. When he had it ready, hanging in loops on his left arm, he held out one end to his companions with a smile.

“Alpen rope. Good. Best,” he said. “English make,” and he pulled open one end, to show them a red strand running through it. “Now!”

He fastened one end by a peculiar knot round Saxe’s waist, arranging it so that it should not slip and tighten, whatever stress was given. Then, bidding the lad walk away till told to stop, he deliberately counted over a certain number of rings.

“Stop! Keep the rope out of the snow.”

Then, with Dale and Saxe holding the rope taut, the middle