Wake led, for he knew the road and the road wanted knowing.  Otherwise he should have been last on the rope, for that is the place of the better man in a descent.  I had some horrible moments following on when the rope grew taut, for I had no help from it.  We zigzagged down the rock, sometimes driven to the ice of the adjacent couloirs, sometimes on the outer ridge of the Black Stone, sometimes wriggling down little cracks and over evil boiler-plates.  The snow did not lie on it, but the rock crackled with thin ice or oozed ice water.  Often it was only by the grace of God that I did not fall headlong, and pull Wake out of his hold to the bergschrund far below.  I slipped more than once, but always by a miracle recovered myself.  To make things worse, Wake was tiring.  I could feel him drag on the rope, and his movements had not the precision they had had in the morning.  He was the mountaineer, and I the novice.  If he gave out, we should never reach the valley.

The fellow was clear grit all through.  When we reached the foot of the tooth and sat huddled up with our faces away from the wind, I saw that he was on the edge of fainting.  What that effort Must have cost him in the way of resolution you may guess, but he did not fail till the worst was past.  His lips were colourless, and he was choking with the nausea of fatigue.  I found a flask of brandy in his pocket, and a mouthful revived him.

‘I’m all out,’ he said.  ’The road’s easier now, and I can direct YOU about the rest . . .  You’d better leave me.  I’ll only be a drag.  I’ll come on when I feel better.’

’No, you don’t, you old fool.  You’ve got me over that infernal iceberg, and I’m going to see you home.’

I rubbed his arms and legs and made him swallow some chocolate.  But when he got on his feet he was as doddery as an old man.  Happily we had an easy course down a snow gradient, which we glissaded in very unorthodox style.  The swift motion freshened him up a little, and he was able to put on the brake with his axe to prevent us cascading into the bergschrund.  We crossed it by a snow bridge, and started out on the seracs of the Schwarzstein glacier.

I am no mountaineer—­not of the snow and ice kind, anyway—­but I have a big share of physical strength and I wanted it all now.  For those seracs were an invention of the devil.  To traverse that labyrinth in a blinding snowstorm, with a fainting companion who was too weak to jump the narrowest crevasse, and who hung on the rope like lead when there was occasion to use it, was more than I could manage.  Besides, every step that brought us nearer to the valley now increased my eagerness to hurry, and wandering in that maze of clotted ice was like the nightmare when you stand on the rails with the express coming and are too weak to climb on the platform.  As soon as possible I left the glacier for the hillside, and though that was laborious enough in all conscience, yet it enabled me to steer a straight course.  Wake never spoke a word.  When I looked at him his face was ashen under a gale which should have made his cheeks glow, and he kept his eyes half closed.  He was staggering on at the very limits of his endurance . . .