“Our last difficulty, Wallie,” said Garratt
Skinner, as he cut a large step in which Hine might
stand. “Once up that wall, our troubles
are over.”
Walter Hine looked at the wall. It was not smooth
ice, it was true; blocks had broken loose from it,
and had left it bulging out here, there, and in places
fissured. But it stood at an angle of 65 degrees.
It seemed impossible that any one should ascend it.
He looked down the slope up which they had climbed—it
seemed equally impossible that any one should return.
Moreover, the sun was already in the West, and the
ice promontory under which they stood shut its warmth
from them. Walter Hine was in the shadow, and
he shivered with cold as much as with fear. For
half an hour Pierre Delouvain tried desperately to
work his way up that ice wall, and failed.
“It is too late,” he said. “We
shall not get up to-night.”
Garratt Skinner nodded his head.
“No, nor get down,” he added, gravely.
“I am sorry, Wallie. We must go back and
find a place where we can pass the night.”
Walter Hine was in despair. He was tired, he
was desperately cold, his gloves were frozen, his
fingers and his feet benumbed.
“Oh, let’s stop here!” he cried.
“We can’t,” said Garratt Skinner,
and he turned as he spoke and led the way down quickly.
There was need for hurry. Every now and then he
stopped to cut an intervening step, where those already
cut were too far apart, and at times to give Hine
a hand while Delouvain let him down with the help
of the rope from behind.
Slowly they descended, and while they descended the
sun disappeared, the mists gathered about the precipices
below, the thunder of the avalanches was heard at
rare intervals, the ice-cliffs above them glimmered
faintly and still more faintly. The dusk came.
They descended in a ghostly twilight. At times
the mists would part, and below them infinite miles
away they saw the ice-fields of the Brenva glacier.
The light was failing altogether when Garratt Skinner
turned to his left and began to traverse the slopes
to a small patch of rocks.
“Here!” he said, as he reached them.
“We must sit here until the morning comes.”
A NIGHT ON AN ICE-SLOPE
At the base of the rocks there was a narrow ledge
on which, huddled together, the three men could sit
side by side. Garratt Skinner began to clear
the snow from the ledge with his ice-ax; but Walter
Hine sank down at once and Pierre Delouvain, who might
have shown a better spirit, promptly followed his
example.
“What is the use?” he whispered.
“We shall all die to-night.... I have a
wife and family.... Let us eat what there is to
eat and then die,” and drowsily repeating his
words, he fell asleep. Garratt Skinner, however,
roused him, and drowsily he helped to clear the ledge.
Then Walter Hine was placed in the middle that he
might get what warmth and shelter was to be had, the
rope was hitched over a spike of rock behind, so that
if any one fell asleep he might not fall off, and
Delouvain and Skinner took their places. By this
time darkness had come. They sat upon the narrow
ledge with their backs to the rock and the steep snow-slopes
falling away at their feet. Far down a light or
two glimmered in the chalets of La Brenva.
