having done the Mont Blanc to the summit.

"Who 'll know it?" returned Bompard, cynically. "The porters kept the
banner, and Chamonix will believe it is you."

"You are right," cried Tartarin, in a tone of conviction; "the honour of
Tarascon is safe..."

But the elements grew furious, the north-wind a hurricane, the snow flew
in volumes. Both were silent, haunted by sinister ideas; they remembered
those ill-omened relics in the glass case of the old inn-keeper, his
laments, the legend of that American tourist found petrified with cold
and hunger, holding in his stiffened hand a note-book, in which his
agonies were written down even to the last convulsion, which made the
pencil slip and the signature uneven.

"Have you a note-book, Gonzague?"

And the other, comprehending without further explanation:--

"Ha! _vai_, a note-book!.. If you think I am going to let myself die
like that American!.. Quick, let's get on! come out of this."

"Impossible... At the first step we should be blown like straws and
pitched into some abyss."

"Well then, we had better shout; the Grands-Mulets is not far off..."
And Bompard, on his knees, in the attitude of a cow at pasture, lowing,
roared out, "Help! help! help!.."

"To arms!" shouted Tartarin, in his most sonorous chest voice, which the
grotto repercussioned in thunder.

Bompard seized his arm: "Horrors! the _serac!_".. Positively the whole
block was trembling; another shout and that mass of accumulated icicles
would be down upon their heads. They stopped, rigid, motionless, wrapped
in a horrid silence, presently broken by a distant rolling sound, coming
nearer, increasing, spreading to the horizon, and dying at last far
down, from gulf to gulf.

"Poor souls!" murmured Tartarin, thinking of the Swede and his guides
caught, no doubt, and swept away by the avalanche.

Bompard shook his head: "We are scarcely better off than they," he said.

And truly, their situation was alarming; but they did not dare to stir
from their icy grotto, nor to risk even their heads outside in the
squall.

To complete the oppression of their hearts, from the depths of the
valley rose the howling of a dog, baying at death. Suddenly Tartarin,
with swollen eyes, his lips quivering, grasped the hands of his
companion, and looking at him gently, said:--

"Forgive me, Gonzague, yes, yes, forgive me. I was rough to you just
now; I treated you as a liar..."

"Ah! _vai_. What harm did that do me?"