and he remained, crouching on the snow, his teeth
clenched, his muscles straining, and too far from the crevasse to see
what was happening.

Stunned at first by the fall, and blinded by snow, Tartarin waved his
arms and legs at random, like a puppet out of order; then, drawing
himself up by means of the rope, he hung suspended over the abyss, his
nose against its icy side, which his breath polished, in the attitude of
a plumber in the act of soldering a waste-pipe. He saw the sky above him
growing paler and the stars disappearing; below he could fathom the gulf
and its opaque shadows, from which rose a chilling breath.

Nevertheless, his first bewilderment over, he recovered his
self-possession and his fine good-humour.

"Hey! up there! _pere_ Kaufmann, don't leave us to mildew here, _que!_
there 's a draught all round, and besides, this cursed rope is cutting
our loins."

Kaufmann was unable to answer; to have unclenched his teeth would have
lessened his strength. But Inebnit shouted from below:

"Mossie... Mossie... ice-axe..." for his own had been lost in the fall;
and, the heavy implement being now passed from the hands of Tartarin to
those of the guide (with difficulty, owing to the space that separated
the two hanged ones), the mountaineer used it to make notches in the
ice-wall before him, into which he could fasten both hands and feet.

The weight of the rope being thus lessened by at least one-half,
Rodolphe Kaufmann, with carefully calculated vigour and infinite
precautions, began to draw up the president, whose Tarasconese cap
appeared at last at the edge of the crevasse. Inebnit followed him in
turn and the two mountaineers met again with that effusion of brief
words which, in persons of limited elocution, follows great dangers.
Both were trembling with their effort, and Tartarin passed them his
flask of kirsch to steady their legs. He himself was nimble and calm,
and while he shook himself free of snow he hummed his song under the
nose of his wondering guides, beating time with his foot to the measure:

"_Brav... brav... Franzose_..." said Kaufmann, tapping him on the
shoulder; to which Tartarin answered with his fine laugh:

"You rogue! I knew very well there was no danger..."

Never within the memory of guides was there seen such an Alpinist.

They started again, climbing perpendicularly a sort of gigantic wall of
ice some thousand feet high, in which they were forced to cut steps as
they went