But Chayne could not sleep; hope and doubt fought too strongly within him, wrestling for the life of his friend.  At twelve o’clock Michel knocked upon his door.  Chayne got up from his bed at once, drew on his boots, and breakfasted.  At half past the rescue party set out, following a rough path through a wilderness of boulders by the light of a lantern.  It was still dark when they came to the edge of the glacier, and they sat down and waited.  In a little while the sky broke in the East, a twilight dimly revealed the hills, Michel blew out the lantern, the blurred figures of the guides took shape and outline, and silently the morning dawned upon the world.

The guides moved on to the glacier and spread over it, ascending as they searched.

“You see, monsieur, there is very little snow this year,” said Michel, chipping steps so that he and Chayne might round the corner of a wide crevasse.

“Yes, but it does not follow that he slipped,” said Chayne, hotly, for he was beginning to resent that explanation as an imputation against his friend.

Slowly the party moved upward over the great slope of ice into the recess, looking for steps abruptly ending above a crevasse or for signs of an avalanche.  They came level with the lower end of a long rib of rock which crops out from the ice and lengthwise bisects the glacier.  Here the search ended for a while.  The rib of rocks is the natural path, and the guides climbed it quickly.  They came to the upper glacier and spread out once more, roped in couples.  They were now well within the great amphitheater.  On their left the cliffs of the Charmoz overlapped them, on the right the rocks of the Blaitiere.  For an hour they advanced, cutting steps since the glacier was steep, and then from the center of the glacier a cry rang out.  Chayne at the end of the line upon the right looked across.  A little way in front of the two men who had shouted something dark lay upon the ice.  Chayne, who was with Michel Revailloud, called to him and began hurriedly to scratch steps diagonally toward the object.

“Take care, monsieur,” cried Michel.

Chayne paid no heed.  Coming up from behind on the left-hand side, he passed his guide and took the lead.  He could tell now what the dark object was, for every now and then a breath of wind caught it and whirled it about the ice.  It was a hat.  He raised his ax to slice a step and a gust of wind, stronger than the others, lifted the hat, sent it rolling and skipping down the glacier, lifted it again and gently dropped it at his feet.  He stooped down and picked it up.  It was a soft broad-brimmed hat of dark gray felt.  In the crown there was the name of an English maker.  There was something more too.  There were two initials—­J.L.

Chayne turned to Michel Revailloud.

“You were right, Michel,” he said, solemnly.  “My friend has made the first passage of the Col des Nantillons from the East.”