"Doesn't it remind you of Al-Sirat's arch, Miss Home?" asked Kennedy. "Haven't the pleasure of that gentleman's acquaintance," observed Cyril. "Nor I," said Kennedy; "but Al-Sirat's arch is the bridge--narrow as the edge of a razor, or the thread of an attenuated spider--which is supposed to span the fiery abyss, over which the good _skate_ into Paradise, while the bad topple over it. Don't you remember Byron's lines about it in the Giaour? "`Yea, _Soul_, and should our prophet say That form was nought but breathing clay, By Alla! I would answer nay; Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood, That topples o'er the fiery flood, With Paradise within my view, And all its Houris beckoning through.' "Pretty nearly the only lines of Byron I know." Somehow Kennedy was looking at Violet while he repeated the lines. A few minutes more brought them on to the great field of snow, through which they toiled along laboriously, treading as much as possible in the footsteps of the guide. "This isn't a glacier, is it?" asked Cyril. "Oh dear, no! If it were, you wouldn't find it such easy walking, for it would be full of hidden crevasses, and we should have to march much more carefully, occasionally poking our feet through the snow that lightly covers a fathomless depth." "Yes, you must have read in Murray that eerie story of the guide that actually tumbled, though not very deep, into the centre of the glacier, and found his way back to light down the bed of a sub-glacial torrent, with no worse result than a broken arm." "There is a still eerier story, though, of two brothers," said Kennedy, "of whom one fell into a crevasse, and was caught on a ledge some fifty feet down, where he could be actually seen and heard." "Did he ever get out?" asked Violet. "Yes; the guide went back four hours' walk, and brought ropes and assistance just before dark, and meanwhile the other brother waited anxiously by the side of the crevasse, talking, and letting down brandy and other things to keep the poor fellow alive. He did escape, but not without considerable risk of being frozen to death." Beguiling the way with talk, they at last got over the tedious climb, and reached the summit. Eva and Violet were very tired, but the difficult and eager air of the icy mountain-top was exhilarating as new wine, and the provisions they had brought with them reinvigorated them completely. To hungry and thirsty climbers black bread and _vin ordinaire_ taste like nectar and ambrosia. The day was cloudless, the view unspeakably magnificent, and Cyril's high spirits were contagious. They lingered long before they began the descent, and laughingly pooh-poohed the guide's repeated suggestion that it was getting late. "I bet you Kennedy has been writing poetry," said Cyril; "do make him read it, Julian."