compass, and no longer knew in the very least which was the southern side. I questioned one and another; opinions were divided and very uncertain. The conclusion was that not one of us could say which was the north and which the south. Never—no, never have I realised the value of the points of the compass as at that moment. All around was the unknown of gray cloudland; below we could just make out the beginning of a slope here or there, but which was the right one? We must make up our minds to descend, trusting to good fortune. If by ill luck we took the northern slope we risked breaking our necks over those precipices the very look of which had so inspired us with fear. Perhaps not one of us would survive. I went through some moments of acute perplexity. “Let us stay here,” said the majority, and wait till the rain stops. “Bad advice,” said the others, and I was of the number; “bad advice. The rain may last a long while, and drenched as we are, at the first chill of night we shall freeze on the spot.” My worthy friend, Bernard Verlot, come from the Jardin des Plantes at Paris on purpose to ascend Mont Ventoux with me, showed an imperturbable calm, trusting to my prudence to get out of the scrape. I drew him a little on one side so as not to increase the panic of the others, and told him my terrible apprehensions. We held a council of two, and tried to supply the place of the magnetic needle by reasoning. “When the clouds came up,” said I, “was it not from the south?” “Certainly from the south.” “And though the wind was hardly perceptible, the rain slanted slightly from south to north?” “Yes, I noticed that until I got bewildered. Is not that something to guide us? Let us descend on the side whence the rain comes.” “I had thought of that, but felt doubtful; the wind was too light to have a clearly defined direction. It might be a revolving current such as are produced on a mountain top surrounded by cloud. Nothing assures me that the first direction has been continuous, and that the current of air does not come from the north.” “And in that case?” “Ah! there is the crux! I have an idea! If the wind has not changed, we ought to be wettest on the left side, since the rain came on that side till we lost our bearings. If it has changed we must be pretty equally wet all round. We must feel and decide. Will that do?” “It will.” “And if I am mistaken?” “You will not be mistaken.” In two words the matter was explained to our friends. Each felt himself, not outside, which would not have been sufficient, but under his innermost garment, and it was with unspeakable relief that I heard one and all announce the left side much wetter than the right. The wind had not changed. Very good, let us turn toward the rainy quarter. The chain was formed again, Verlot as rearguard, to leave no straggler behind. Before starting, I said once more to my friend, “Shall we risk it?” “Risk it; I follow you,” and we plunged into the awful unknown.