Awoke Sunday morning and found myself in mid-winter; very cold, snowing hard, and the wind howling frightfully around our humble but snug place of refuge. The other travelers determined to prosecute their journey, spite of the Sabbath or the storm, and to go by way of the glacier of the Rhone, the other side of the summit of the pass and about four miles distant. They sallied out with their guide and left me to myself, which was one advantage. But in three hours they returned, giving an alarming account of the difficulties and dangers of the way. When just abandoning the attempt they heard a cry for help, and succeeded in rescuing another party of three with their guide, who had lost their way in the thick mist and storm and were wandering about in the drifts, suffering extremely with the cold, and who, as well as their guide, had given up all hope of reaching the hospice unless their cries should perchance be heard and bring them aid. All returned to the hospice together, and no further attempts to leave it were made that day. When left alone I had the fire to myself, and was spending the time in as profitable a manner as possible, thinking a little, too, of the strangeness of passing the day in such an elevated position; so their return, with an accession to their company, though very desirable for them, was not so favorable to me. And then of all people in the world the Germans are the noisiest talkers; Frenchmen are nothing to them; the fire which dried their clothes and warmed their fingers loosened their tongues, and they kept up a continual gabble for the greater part of the day. Scarcely a winter passes that some persons are not lost in this pass during such storms. A gloomy lake on the summit of the mountain, into which the bodies are thrown for burial, receives the name of “The Lake of the Dead” (Todten-See).