Well he knew that he must head down at once for Camp No. 4 or risk death on this barren, wind-swept slope, and equally well he knew that to go would be to leave his brave companion to his fate, providing he had not already met it on those desolate ridges above. Yes, and another thing he knew. The report of this latest disaster would mean the doom of the expedition. The terrified, superstitious natives would bolt, claiming the "snow people" had struck again. "Gods of the Mountain" they called them, those mysterious beings they alone seemed to see--evil spirits who kept guard over this towering realm, determined none should gain its ultimate heights. * * * * * Tensely Professor Prescott stood there on that narrow shelf of glacial ice, peering off into the sunset. A hundred miles to the west, bathed in the refulgence of a thousand rainbows, rose the incredible peak of Everest, mightiest of all mountains, yet less than 1,000 feet higher than Kinchinjunga. And down, straight down those almost vertical slopes up which the expedition had toiled all summer, lay gorges choked with tropical growth. Off to the south, a scant fifty miles away, the British health station of Darjeeling flashed its white villas in the coppery glow. An awesome spectacle!--one that human eyes had seldom if ever seen. Yet from the summit, so invitingly near!... Perhaps, even now, Stoddard was witnessing this incomparable sight. To push on, to join him, meant triumph. To head down, defeat. While to stay, to wait.... Grimly, Professor Prescott left his insecure perch and headed up over that razor-back ridge whence the young geologist had vanished. As he proceeded cautiously along, drawing sharp, quick breaths in the rarefied upper atmosphere, he told himself it was ambition that was leading him on, but in his heart he knew it was not so. In his heart, he knew he was going to the rescue of his gallant companion, though the way meant death. * * * * * A hundred yards had been gained, perhaps two--each desperate foothold fraught with peril of a plunge into the yawning abysms to left and right--when suddenly he spied a figure on a twilit spur ahead. Panting, he paused. It must be Stoddard! Yet it seemed too small, too ghostly. Professor Prescott waved, but even as he looked for an answering signal, the figure vanished. "My eyes!" he muttered to himself. "I'm getting snow-blind." Then he called aloud: "Jack! Oh, Jack! Hello!" Only an echo greeted the call, and he did not repeat it but pushed on silently, conserving his energy. Was there truth after all in those persistent rumors of the natives about the snow people who inhabited the upper slopes of the Himalayas? His tired brain toyed with the idea, to be cut off sharply by the cheery call: "Hi there, Professor! Hi-ho!" And gazing upwards toward a jutting crag not ten rods beyond, he saw young Stoddard etched against the darkening sky.