There was the end of the road, and there were our own footprints and the impress of the yak’s hoofs in the snow.  The sight of them affected me, for it seemed strange that we should have lived to look upon them again.  We stared over the edge of the precipice.  Yes, it was sheer and absolutely unclimbable.

“Come to the glacier,” said Leo.

So we went on to it, and scrambling a little way down its root, made an examination.  Here, so far as we could judge, the cliff was about four hundred feet deep.  But whether or no the tongue of ice reached to the foot of it we were unable to tell, since about two thirds of the way down it arched inwards, like the end of a bent bow, and the conformation of the overhanging rocks on either side was such that we could not see where it terminated.  We climbed back again and sat down, and despair took hold of us, bitter, black despair.

“What are we to do?” I asked.  “In front of us death.  Behind us death, for how can we recross those mountains without food or guns to shoot it with?  Here death, for we must sit and starve.  We have striven and failed.  Leo, our end is at hand.  Only a miracle can save us.”

“A miracle,” he answered.  “Well, what was it that led us to the top of the mount so that we were able to escape the avalanche?  And what was it which put that rock in your way as you sank into the bed of dust, and gave me wit and strength to dig you out of your grave of snow?  And what is it that has preserved us through seventeen years of dangers such as few men have known and lived?  Some directing Power.  Some Destiny that will accomplish itself in us.  Why should the Power cease to guide?  Why should the Destiny be baulked at last?”

He paused, then added fiercely, “I tell you, Horace, that even if we had guns, food, and yaks, I would not turn back upon our spoor, since to do so would prove me a coward and unworthy of her.  I will go on.”

“How?” I asked.

“By that road,” and he pointed to the glacier.

“It is a road to death!”

“Well, if so, Horace, it would seem that in this land men find life in death, or so they believe.  If we die now, we shall die travelling our path, and in the country where we perish we may be born again.  At least I am determined, so you must choose.”

“I have chosen long ago.  Leo, we began this journey together and we will end it together.  Perhaps Ayesha knows and will help us,” and I laughed drearily.  “If not—­come, we are wasting time.”

Then we took counsel, and the end of it was that we cut a skin rug and the yak’s tough hide into strips and knotted these together into two serviceable ropes, which we fastened about our middles, leaving one end loose, for we thought that they might help us in our descent.

Next we bound fragments of another skin rug about our legs and knees to protect them from the chafing of the ice and rocks, and for the same reason put on our thick leather gloves.  This done, we took the remainder of our gear and heavy robes and, having placed stones in them, threw them over the brink of the precipice, trusting to find them again, should we ever reach its foot.  Now our preparations were complete, and it was time for us to start upon perhaps one of the most desperate journeys ever undertaken by men of their own will.