to free himself, and
knew that he was as yet unhurt, if not yet safe.

He looked round for his friend and for the guides. They had all been
roped together, but the rope had broken between himself and his
companions. He saw only one prostrate form, and, at some little
distance, the hand of a man protruding from the white waste of snow.

The thought of affording help to the other members of the party
stimulated Brian to efforts which he would not, perhaps, have made on
his own account. In a short time he was able to make his way to the man
lying face downwards in the snow. He had already recognised him as one
of the guides. It needed but a slight examination to convince him that
this man was dead--not from suffocation or cold, but from the effects of
a wound inflicted in the fall. The hand, sticking out of the snow
belonged to the other guide; it was cold and stiff, and with all his
efforts Brian could not succeed in extricating the body from the snow in
which it was tightly wedged. Of the young Englishman, Gunston, and the
other guide, there was absolutely nothing to be seen.

Brian turned sick and faint when the conviction was forced upon him that
he would see his friend no more. His limbs failed him; he could not go
on. He was born to misfortune, he said to himself; born to bring trouble
and sorrow upon his companions and friends. Without him, Gunston would
not, perhaps, have attempted this ascent. And how could he carry home to
Gunston's family the story of his death?

After all, it was very unlikely that he would reach the bottom of the
mountain in safety. He had no guide; he was utterly ignorant of the way.
There were pitfalls without number in his path--crevasses, precipices,
treacherous ice-bridges, and slippery, loose snow. He would struggle on
until the end came, however; better to move, even towards death, than to
lie down and perish miserably of cold.

It is said sometimes that providence keeps a special watch over children
and drunken men; that is to say, that those who are absolutely incapable
of caring for themselves do sometimes, by wonderful good fortune, escape
the dangers into which sager persons are apt to fall. So it seemed with
Brian Luttrell. For hours he struggled onwards, sore pressed by cold,
and fatigue, and pain; but at last, long after night had fallen, he
staggered into a little hamlet on the southern side of the mountain,
footsore and fainting, indeed, but otherwise unharmed.

Nobody