We looked towards our mountain. Its aspect was not encouraging. The ridge that led upwards had a spiked arête, palisaded with miniature aiguilles, banked up at their bases by heavy snow-beds, which led down, at considerable angles, on one side towards the Glacier de Saleinoz, on the other towards the Glacier du Chardonnet. Under any circumstances, it would have been a stiff piece of work to clamber up that way. Prudence and comfort counselled, “Give it up.” Discretion overruled valour. Moore and Almer crossed the Col du Chardonnet to go to Orsières, and we others returned towards Chamounix. But when we got some distance down, the evil spirit which prompts men to ascend mountains tempted us to stop, and to look back at the Aiguille d’Argentière. The sky was cloudless; no wind could be felt, nor sign of it perceived; it was only eight o’clock in the morning; and there, right before us, we saw another branch of the glacier leading high up into the mountain—far above the Col du Chardonnet—and a little couloir rising from its head almost to the top of the peak. This was clearly the right route to take. We turned back, and went at it. The glacier was steep, and the snow gully rising out of it was steeper. Seven hundred steps were cut. Then the couloir became _too_ steep. We took to the rocks on its left, and at last gained the ridge, at a point about 1500 feet above the Col du Chardonnet. We faced about to the right, and went along the ridge; keeping on some snow a little below its crest, on the Saleinoz side. Then we got the wind again; yet no one thought of turning, for we were within 250 feet of the summit. The axes of Croz and Couttet went to work once more, for the slope was about as steep as snow-slope could be. Its surface was covered with a loose, granular crust; dry and utterly incoherent; which slipped away in streaks directly it was meddled with. The men had to cut through this into the old beds underneath, and to pause incessantly to rake away the powdery stuff, which poured down in hissing streams over the hard substratum. Ugh! how cold it was! How the wind blew! Couttet’s hat was torn from its fastenings, and went on a tour in Switzerland. The flour-like snow, swept off the ridge above, was tossed spirally upwards, eddying in _tourmentes_; then, dropt in lulls, or caught by other gusts, was flung far and wide to feed the Saleinoz. “My feet are getting suspiciously numbed,” cried Reilly: “how about frost-bites?” “Kick hard, sir,” shouted the men; “it’s the only way.” _Their_ fingers were kept alive by their work; but it was cold for the feet, and they kicked and hewed simultaneously. I followed their example too violently, and made a hole clean through my footing. A clatter followed as if crockery had been thrown down a well.