thirty-five hours’ burial, we crawled out of our shelter. At first neither of us could stand, so chilled were we by long exposure, and so cramped by our enforced position, but after a good thaw in the hot sun we managed to hobble about, and pack the knapsacks. After eating the few scraps that remained, we started at seven o’clock up the ridge that we had descended two days before.

“We were very shaky on our legs at first, but at each step the stiffness seemed to wear off, and after half an hour we quite recovered their use; but there remained an all-pervading sense of emptiness inside that was not exhilarating. After ascending a short distance, and with my telescope carefully examining the rocks, we determined to descend to the glacier below us (the western branch), and crossing this get on to some more rocks beneath the lower ice-fall. If we could get down these our way seemed clear.

“I won’t trouble you with the details of the descent: suffice it to say that, without encountering any difficulty, we stepped on to grass about twelve o’clock, and descending green slopes, still patched here and there with snow (which would have provided sufficient Edelweiss for all the hats of the S.A.C.), we arrived safely at La Grave, after a pleasant little outing of fifty-six hours. Mr Middlemore, despairing of my coming, had started for England the night before, and had left Jaun to await my arrival.

“After a hot bath, and some bread-crumbs soaked in warm wine, I went to bed, and the next morning I awoke as well as I am now, with the exception of stiffness in the knees, and a slight frost-bite on one hand. Martin, however, who, I suspect, had eaten a good deal on his arrival, was seized with severe cramp, and for some hours was very ill.

“Two days’ rest put us all to rights again.”

Though rivalry may be keen between first-class guides, and bitter things be said now and then in the heat of the struggle for first place, yet when a great guide has passed away, it is seldom that one hears anything but good of him. A pretty story is told—and I believe it is true—of the son of old Maquignaz of Valtournanche, which exemplifies this chivalrous trait. Maquignaz and Jean Antoine Carrel were often in competition in the early days of systematic climbing, and if not enemies, they were at any rate hardly bosom friends. Carrel’s tragic and noble death on the Matterhorn will be recalled by readers of my True Tales of Mountain Adventure. Not very long ago a French climber was making an ascent of the Italian side of the Matterhorn, with “young” Maquignaz as guide. “Where did Carrel fall?” he innocently enquired, as they ascended the precipitous cliffs on the Breuil side of the mountain. Young Maquignaz turned sharply to him and exclaimed: “Carrel n’est pas tombé! Il est mort!”