“Let me show you,” he said, and flung himself on to the edge of the precipice into exactly the position of a lady riding side-saddle.  “You will find it more comfortable to sit down.”

But anxious as I am abroad not to discredit my country by unseemly exhibitions I felt unequal to such gymnastics without a proper rehearsal at a lower level.  I seated myself carefully at a yard (perhaps it was a couple of yards) from the edge, advanced on my trousers without dignity to the verge, and so with an effort thrust my legs over to dangle in the crystalline air.

“That,” proceeded General Bompiani, pointing with a giddy flourish of his riding whip, “is Monte Tomba.”

I swayed and half-extended my hand towards him.  But he was still there—­sitting, so to speak, on the half of himself....  I was astonished that he did not disappear abruptly during his exposition....

2

The fighting man in the Dolomites has been perhaps the most wonderful of all these separate campaigns.  I went up by automobile as far as the clambering new road goes up the flanks of Tofana No. 2; thence for a time by mule along the flank of Tofana No. 1, and thence on foot to the vestiges of the famous Castelletto.

The aspect of these mountains is particularly grim and wicked; they are worn old mountains, they tower overhead in enormous vertical cliffs of sallow grey, with the square jointings and occasional clefts and gullies, their summits are toothed and jagged; the path ascends and passes round the side of the mountain upon loose screes, which descend steeply to a lower wall of precipices.  In the distance rise other harsh and desolate-looking mountain masses, with shining occasional scars of old snow.  Far below is a bleak valley of stunted pine trees through which passes the road of the Dolomites.

As I ascended the upper track two bandages men were coming down on led mules.  It was mid-August, and they were suffering from frostbite.  Across the great gap between the summits a minute traveller with some provisions was going up by wire to some post upon the crest.  For everywhere upon the icy pinnacles are observation posts directing the fire of the big guns on the slopes below, or machine-gun stations, or little garrisons that sit and wait through the bleak days.  Often they have no link with the world below but a precipitous climb or a “teleferic” wire.  Snow and frost may cut them off absolutely for weeks from the rest of mankind.  The sick and wounded must begin their journey down to help and comfort in a giddy basket that swings down to the head of the mule track below.