not hear him in the storm. Half-way down the ladderand clinging tighter than one does to the poles of an electric battery,-I obeyed the signal and turned round its outer edge with my back to the precipice, to drop down the remaining rungs. Thus piecemeal we came to each famous passage in turn -the Cravate, the Linceul, the Mauvais Pas. The visi bility continued as as bad as ever, and owing to this we missed our way once or twice and (easy temptation!) got too far down, retracing our steps laboriously upward. Yet how any one in such weather could find any way at all was a marvel to me. And oh! those icy slabs licked by the clouds and dipping one below the next like giant tiles on a giant spire, I cannot forget (and I can hardly forgive) them. Once or twice in weak moments I began to ask myself, "How is this going to end? Is it really well with We came presently to something which always tends to make me hesitate a disappearing snow-slope of ruthless steepness. I prefer the ruthlessness of rock, which, after all, is a form of terra firma, even if attenuated! I had purposely left my ice-axe behind at Zermatt. One could do without it on the rock, but here how welcome it would have been ! Yet this slope must be faced and dealt with. Steadily we advanced across it, the rope anchored to the Gentinetta ice-axes, and held us ?" tight by L. and O., myself between them, silent and very insignificant, and digging my fingers where possible into the axe-holes in the frozen snow above me. These things teach one perspective and a sense of proportion, for on such a slope the little things of life cease from troubling. You must stand upright and keep a steady head, advancing when told to, and then standing still again as if all were well. A splendid subject for the camera on a fine day, but to-day in this chilling storm, ugh! . . . And yet who would ever forget the spectacle of that slope of purest white descending, mysteriously descending, and passing out of sight below us. It was now four o'clock in the afternoon, and we were nearing our goal. Still keeping to the arête, still dropping, dropping, tormented by the wind, yet taking each step with the utmost caution, we presently beheld our Arctic Mecca. Below us on a shelf of rock (we could have jumped through space on to its roof) lay our hut, the Rifugio Luigi di Savoia, half-buried in the snow. A short but unpleasant passage lay between us and it, but our "bar" was crossed, and in thirteen hours from the "Belvedere" we forced open the double door and entered the darkness of the cabin (4.25 P.M.). We remained here for eighteen hours. The first thing was to get warm. There was a stove, but no fuel. We held a confer ence by candle-light, and de- ambrosia. Meanwhile the storm cided to chop up and burn the continued through the night only chair. The hut rapidly with great force, making the filled with smoke, in which my hut tremble, creak, and drum, guides moved about like Mon- which caused us to feel grateful gols in a Gobi cabin. The wind to the Italian Alpine Club that raged outside, and became more they had put such solid workfrenzied still when it failed to manship into the “rifugio.” blow our hut down the precipice. Getting my things off, I covered myself in rugs, and withdrew in the darkness to the wooden shelf, where I spent twelve hours sleeping or trying to sleep, and eighteen hours trying to get warm. The bangbang of the axe continued at intervals through the night; now an arm and now a leg of the chair was being turned into smoke, through which our stifling candle glimmered. One of us tried to open the little window. As the shutter was pushed back there was a shriek of wind followed by a smash of glass. So that was that, and henceforth it was a case of candle only. At Breuil I reported this damage and the consumed chair to the leading guide of the Val Tournanche, and am now awaiting the account for their replacement. Our clothes and rucksacks were hung round on nails and wires to set up the illusion that they were drying. The low dialogue of my "Mongol" guides ended every few hours with the welcome query, "Meester Bellows -a cup of soup, a cup of tea? Oh, that soup and that tea, I wished there had been more of each! There was just the difference between them that there is between nectar and At 10 A.M. the next morning, after cleaning up the hut and barring the broken window, we forced the outer door open and braced ourselves for the remainder of the descent. I say say "braced" advisedly, for things still looked very nasty. One would have thought that by this time we had worn down the patience of the storm. But no, the wind at once grasped us by the throat and bade us be gone as we seized the long rope drop and descended the chimney just below the cabin. It was difficult work pressing downward under such conditions, when every foothold seemed precarious and when the slightest slip might still be awkward. awkward. But whatever the temptation to evade the issue and shorten the descent, we were compelled to keep to the line of the arête in the full "line of fire" of the wind. The clouds were still around us, but time was telling in our favour, and soon the great precipices began to stand out more and more. We reached the Col du Lion (11,845 feet), and strode along its lovely curve of corniced snow, whence the plunging view into the abyss of churning gloom on the Tiefenmatten side would have satisfied both Dante and Doré reached Breuil. It was worth a full measure of toil and discomfort on the heights to feel as we now began to feel. We made for the Italian inn near the torrent which races through the hamlet-a simple hostelry, but just the anchorage we needed for our storm-battered selves. The landlord set before us three large bowls of hot tea, and a stir was made in the inn to work up simple comforts for us. Leo and Otto G., the true heroes of the traverse, must have been glad to set down their bulging rucksacks. "Il Cervino "still looked angry in its storm-cap, but from this our quiet sanctuary we could now laugh at it. at a single stroke. Circum- reaction which set in as we venting the "Tête du Lion (whose "Tête" we could not see), we crossed further snow and steadily worked our way downward over the great rock bastions towards safety. The driven snow now turned to sleet. This was a distinct gain, even if it meant melting icicles and dripping clothing. Presently the clouds opened further, and far below us lay. Italy; and, most welcome sight of all, little Breuil in peace and sunshine with its tumbling torrents and waterfalls. Then we came to the first flowers-frail little things growing in rock crevices. We halted at the memorial to Jean-Antoine Carrel, at the spot where the old man died, his duty so finely done. Those who visit Breuil should not fail to walk up as far as this point, not only because it was here that one of the greatest of Alpine guides laid down his life, but for the splendid view of the precipices of the "Italian" Matterhorn on which he strove and conquered. As we strode on down easier slopes in easier mood, a marmot peered down on us from a rock. We whistled and shouted at it, but it would not move. Why should it, indeed As the guides said, "few hunters come this way, and it knows what it is about." We hardly deserved it, but this marmot seemed to be sneering at us. Well, so let it be, we said, and passed on. In another hour we were enjoying the delicious Leaving the Gentinetta brothers chatting with Italian colleagues at the inn, I strolled down to visit my friend Guido Rey at his summer villa by the larch wood, for he was expecting me. He was taking a siesta when I reached his home, so I spent a quiet halfhour sunning myself on the stoop" and enjoying the preliminaries of an all-round drying by the kitchen stove. Oh heat!-delicious heat!-is it not, after life, the greatest of God's gifts to man? Presently the door opened and in came my friend and host. "Ah, mon ami," said he, “si j'avais su que vous traversiez le Cervin par ce temps-là, j'aurais passé une bien mauvaise nuit ! However, here we were, safely anchored in the little port of Breuil, and the sharp memory of our discomforts already melting in the Italian sun. Tea was served on the 'stoop facing south, the sunlight acting on me as a delicious and all-healing balm. Signor Rey brought out his photographs and explained to me, in detail, the route by which we had come. It was easier to follow it here on his study table than it had been up there in situ ! Then while my host rested towards evening, I went for a stroll in the larch woods on the mountain-side, the ground "oozing" with bilberries, juniper and mauve gentians, and the song of water coming up from the valley below. We who had descended that afternoon from the clouds were fortunate in being able to enter Italy without let or hindrance. For some time past there had been difficulties on the Swiss-Italian frontier, and climbers who had drifted too far down into the Italian valleys had been turned back by Fascisti guards. But thanks to the kindness and foresight of my host, the authorities at Valtournanche (a few (a few miles below Breuil) had been warned of our coming, and had sent particular instructions to the frontier guards not to disturb the "Englishman with guides" who was to pass this way! Nothing could have been more courteous and agreeable than the resulting arrangements made by the Podesta. I dined and spent the evening with my friend, and together we discussed the Alps from end to end, and Italy and life. Then bidding him farewell, I returned late by lantern light to our inn by the torrent, my mind running on those memorable and truly delightful hours at the villa. Having found my simple whitewashed bedroom, I quickly turned in and soon collapsed into the heavy sleep of the mountaineer. The next morning we toiled up the long slopes to the Furggenjoch, crossed the pass in thick cloud, descended in a thunderstorm to the Schwarzsee, and with long strides disappeared through the rain to Zermatt. Thus ended our hazardous yet glorious experience of a first-class peak during a firstclass storm. Full of gratitude for having come through safely, and of admiration for the exceptional skill and uncomplaining fortitude of my guides, I pass on this story to my friends. VOL. CCXXIII.—NO. MCCCXLVII. D KARPREEN'S RIVER. "FIVE miles and a good road." Such was the information given me by an obliging person in a velvet smoking-cap and pink petticoats. He had never heard of the place I was asking about, and merely wanted to say what would please me and send me on my way. He was not an Irishman, but an Oriental. Two bedizened parrot-cages on wheels, called eccas, received me and mine. They were attached by bits of rope, some blue glass beads, and a mouldy strap or two to two rats of ponies. The passengers sat on the floor of their cages; the drivers sat somewhere or anywhere or nowhere. When they clicked their tongues the rats started, and to the jingling of bells they kept going in the most marvellous manner. We clicked off at 10 A.M., and in three hours' time had jingled three times five miles. At this point a stray mile-stone said that we had another twenty miles to go. This upset me very much, but no one else minded. The ponies, however, were said to require rest and refreshment. They were loosed from their cages, stripped of their harness, and then rolled in the dust. Black balls of garlic and raw sugar were thrust down their gullets, and we continued. There was no road, only a wide expanse of ruts. Three hours later I was aroused from the miserable stupor into which I had fallen for another dust bath and more garlic and sugar. In this way we continued to lurch across the plains of Hind, then traversed the scrubby outposts of Himalayan forests, then entered the foothills forests themselves, and then at 8 P.M. the benumbing jingling ceased and we were there. I staggered into a thatched bungalow, and heard the sound of running waters. I was out early next morning having a look at what I then called my river, but which later became Karpreen's River. Great things had been said of it into my ear secretly, for we don't like the fame of really good mahseer rivers bruited abroad. But I did not fancy the look of it much. It didn't look fishy. It ran in several channels over a stretch of boulders 1000 yards across. Five miles off rose the outermost barrier of the Himalayas, and the river, rejoicing in its freedom from gorges, seemed to be squandering its strength on boulders, forgetful that what fish and fishermen love are deep rocky pools and long runs, with holts and lurking places. I was reflecting whether yesterday's thirty-five mile agony was worth this, when, without moving, I passed from sunlight into shadow. Turning to see the cause, I perceived that a small man on a large elephant, both sakaaming, had intervened |