“At the foot of the steep slope we came upon the little wooden hutch where, ordinarily, one may procure a guide (also rough socks to stretch over one’s boots) for the passage of the glacier.  Now, however, the shed was closed and tenantless; and we must e’en dispense with a conductor, should we adventure further.

“Herr Baedeker says, ‘Guide unnecessary for the experienced.’

“‘Fidele, are we experienced?’

“’We shall be, mon ami, when we have crossed.  A guide could not alter that.’

“‘But it is true, ma petite.  Come, then!’

“We clambered down amongst huge stones.  Fidele’s little feet went in and out of the crannies like sand-martins.  Suddenly, before we realized it, we were on the glacier.

“Fidele exclaimed.

“‘Mon Dieu!  Is this ice—­these blocks of dirty alabaster?’

“Alas! she was justified.  This torrent of majestic crystal—­seen from above so smooth and bountiful—­a flood of the milk of Nature dispensed from the white bosom of the hills!  Now, near at hand, what do we find it?  A medley of opaque blocks, smeared with grit and rubbish; a vast ruin of avalanches hurled together and consolidated, and of the colour of rock salt.

“‘Peste!’ I cried.  ’We must get to the opposite bank, for all that.

“Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,
  Qui ce matin avoit desclose....’”

“We clasped hands and set forth on our little traversee, our landmark an odd-shaped needle of spar on the further side.  My faith! it was simple.  The paveurs of Nature had left the road a trifle rough, that was all.  Suddenly we came upon a wide fissure stretched obliquely like the mouth of a sole.  Going glibly, we learnt a small lesson of caution therefrom.  Six paces, and we should have tumbled in.

“We looked over fearfully.  Here, in truth, was real ice at last—­green as bottle-glass at the edges, and melting into unfathomable deeps of glowing blue.

“In a moment, with a shriek like that of escaping steam, a windy demon leapt at us from the underneath.  It was all of winter in a breath.  It seemed to shrivel the skin from our faces—­the flesh from our bones.  We staggered backwards.

“‘Mon ami! mon ami!’ cried Fidele, ’my heart is a stone; my eyes are two blisters of water!’

“We danced as the blood returned unwilling to our veins.  It was minutes before we could proceed.

“Afterwards I learned that these hellish eruptions of air betoken a change of temperature.  It was coming then shortly in a dense rainfall.

“When we were recovered, we sought about for a way to circumambulate the crevasse.  Then we remarked that up a huge boulder of ice that had seemed to block our path recent steps, or toe-holes, had been cut.  In a twinkling we were over.  Fidele—­no, a woman never falls.

“‘For all this,’ she says, shaking her head, ’I maintain that a guide here is a sinecurist.’