Twenty of those strides which one cannot moderate on a steep slope, and all fear was over. Under our feet was not empty space but the longed-for ground covered with stones which gave way and rolled down behind us in streams. To one and all this rattle denoting terra firma was heavenly music. In a few minutes we reached the upper fringe of beeches. Here the gloom was yet deeper than on the mountain top; one had to stoop to the ground to see where one was setting foot. How in the midst of this darkness were we to find the Jas, buried in the depth of the wood? Two plants which always follow man, Good King Henry (Chenopodium Bonus Henricus) and the nettle, served me as a clue. I swept my free hand through the air as I walked, and at each sting I knew there was a nettle and an indication. Verlot, our rearguard, made similar lunges, and supplied the want of sight by the burning stings. Our companions showed no faith in this style of research. They talked of continuing the wild descent and of returning if necessary to Bedoin. More confident in the botanical instinct so keen in himself also, Verlot joined with me in persisting in our search, reassuring the most demoralised, and showing that it was possible by questioning plants with our hands to reach our destination in the darkness. They yielded to our reasoning, and shortly after, from one clump of nettles to another, the party arrived at the Jas. Delacour was there, as well as the guide with the baggage, sheltered in good time from the rain. A blazing fire and change of garments soon restored our usual cheerfulness. A block of snow, brought from the neighbouring valley, was hung in a bag before the hearth. A bottle caught the melted water. This would be our fountain for the evening meal. The night was spent on a bed of beech leaves, well crushed by our predecessors, and they were many. Who knows for how many years the mattress had never been renewed? Now it was a hard-beaten mass. The mission of those who could not sleep was to keep up the fire. Hands were not wanting to stir it, for the smoke, with no other exit than a large hole made by the partial falling in of the roof, filled the hut with an atmosphere made to smoke herrings. To get a mouthful of breathable air one must seek it with one’s nose nearly level with the ground. There was coughing; there was strong language, and stirring of the fire; but vain was every attempt to sleep. By 2 a.m. we were all on foot to climb the highest cone and behold the sunrise. The rain was over, the sky splendid, auguring a radiant day.