“Let us stop here for a moment,” said Tartarin. A gigantic _sérac_ of ice offered them a hollow at its base. Into it they crept, spreading down the india-rubber rug of the president and opening a flask of rum, the sole article of provision left them by the guides. A little warmth and comfort followed thereon, while the blows of the ice-axes, getting fainter and fainter up the height, told them of the progress of the expedition. They echoed in the heart of the P. C. A. like a pang of regret for not having done the Mont Blanc to the summit. “Who ‘ll know it?” returned Bompard, cynically. “The porters kept the banner, and Chamonix will believe it is you.” “You are right,” cried Tartarin, in a tone of conviction; “the honour of Tarascon is safe...” But the elements grew furious, the north-wind a hurricane, the snow flew in volumes. Both were silent, haunted by sinister ideas; they remembered those ill-omened relics in the glass case of the old inn-keeper, his laments, the legend of that American tourist found petrified with cold and hunger, holding in his stiffened hand a note-book, in which his agonies were written down even to the last convulsion, which made the pencil slip and the signature uneven. “Have you a note-book, Gonzague?” And the other, comprehending without further explanation:-- “Ha! _vaï_, a note-book!.. If you think I am going to let myself die like that American!.. Quick, let’s get on! come out of this.” “Impossible... At the first step we should be blown like straws and pitched into some abyss.” “Well then, we had better shout; the Grands-Mulets is not far off...” And Bompard, on his knees, in the attitude of a cow at pasture, lowing, roared out, “Help! help! help!..” “To arms!” shouted Tartarin, in his most sonorous chest voice, which the grotto repercussioned in thunder. Bompard seized his arm: “Horrors! the _sérac!_”.. Positively the whole block was trembling; another shout and that mass of accumulated icicles would be down upon their heads. They stopped, rigid, motionless, wrapped in a horrid silence, presently broken by a distant rolling sound, coming nearer, increasing, spreading to the horizon, and dying at last far down, from gulf to gulf. “Poor souls!” murmured Tartarin, thinking of the Swede and his guides caught, no doubt, and swept away by the avalanche. Bompard shook his head: “We are scarcely better off than they,” he said. And truly, their situation was alarming; but they did not dare to stir from their icy grotto, nor to risk even their heads outside in the squall. To complete the oppression of their hearts, from the depths of the valley rose the howling of a dog, baying at death. Suddenly Tartarin, with swollen eyes, his lips quivering, grasped the hands of his companion, and looking at him gently, said:-- “Forgive me, Gonzague, yes, yes, forgive me. I was rough to you just now; I treated you as a liar...” “Ah! _vaï_. What harm did that do me?”