We went up chimneys and gullies by the hour together, and always seemed to be coming to something, although we never got to it. The outline sketch will help to explain the situation. We stood at the foot of a great buttress—perhaps about two hundred feet high—and looked up. It did not go to a point as in the diagram, because we could not see the top, although we felt convinced that behind the fringe of pinnacles we did see there was a top, and that it was the edge of the plateau we so much desired to attain. Up we mounted, and reached the pinnacles; but, lo! another set was seen, and another, and yet more, till we reached the top, and found it was only a buttress, and that we had to descend forty or fifty feet before we could commence to mount again. When this operation had been performed a few dozen times it began to be wearisome, especially as we were in the dark as to our whereabouts. Sémiond, however, encouraged us, and said he knew we were on the right route; so away we went once more. It was now nearly mid-day, and we seemed no nearer the summit of the Pelvoux than when we started. At last we all joined together and held a council. “Sémiond, old friend, do you know where we are now?” “Oh yes, perfectly, to a yard and a half.” “Well, then, how much are we below this plateau?” He affirmed we were not half an hour from the edge of the snow. “Very good: let us proceed.” Half an hour passed, and then another, but we were still in the same state: pinnacles, buttresses and gullies were in profusion, but the plateau was not in sight. So we called him again—for he had been staring about latterly as if in doubt—and repeated the question, “How far below are we now?” Well, he thought it might be half an hour more. “But you said that just now: are you sure we are going right?” Yes, he believe, we were. Believed!—that would not do. “Are you sure we are going right for the Pic des Arcines?” “Pic dei Arcines!” he ejaculated in astonishment, as if he had heard the words for the first time—“Pic des Arcines! No, but for the pyramid, the celebrated pyramid he had helped the great Capitaine Durand,” etc. Here was a fix. We had been talking about it to him for a whole day, and now he confessed he knew nothing about it. I turned to Reynaud, who seemed thunderstruck: “What do you suggest?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” we said, after explaining our minds pretty freely to Sémiond, “the sooner we turn back the better, for we have no wish to see your pyramid.”