rk was done, "we must
start at once."

"Oui, Monsieur," assented the guide, and, without more words, the whole
party began to descend the mountain at a run.

There was cause for haste. Not only did the storm increase in violence,
but evening drew on apace, and all of them were more or less exhausted
by prolonged muscular exertion and exposure to severe cold.

Suddenly, having gone a considerable way down the mountain, they emerged
from fog and snow-drift into blazing sunshine! The strife of elements
was confined entirely to the summit. The inferior ice-slopes and the
valleys far below were bathed in the golden glories of a magnificent
sunset and, before they reached the huts at the Grands Mulets, they had
passed from a condition of excessive cold to one of extreme heat,
insomuch that the Captain and Professor were compelled to walk with
their coats slung over their shoulders, while perspiration streamed from
their bare brows.

That night the party slept again at the Grands Mulets, and next day they
reached Chamouni, fagged, no doubt, and bearing marks of mountaineering
in the shape of sun-burnt cheeks and peeled noses, but hearty,
nevertheless, and not a little elated with their success in having
scaled the mighty sides and the hoary summit of Mont Blanc.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

TELLS HOW LEWIS DISTINGUISHED HIMSELF.

Seated one morning on an easy chair in Susan Quick's apartment and
swinging his little blue legs to and fro in a careless, negligent
manner, Gillie White announced it as his opinion that Mister Lewis had
gone, or was fast going, mad.

"Why do you think so?" asked Susan, with a smile, looking up for a
moment from some portion of Lewis's nether integuments, which Mont Blanc
had riven almost to shreds.

"W'y do I think so?" repeated Gillie; "w'y, cos he's not content with
havin' busted his boots an' his clo'se, an' all but busted hisself, in
goin' to the top o' Mont Blang an' Monty Rosa, an' all the other
Monty-thingumbobs about but he's agoin' off to day with that queer fish
Laycrwa to hunt some where up above the clouds--in among the stars, I
fancy--for shamwas."

"Indeed!" said Susan, with a neat little laugh.

"Yes, indeed. He's mountain-mad--mad as a Swiss March hare, if not
madder--By the way, Susan, wot d'ee think o' the French?"

Gillie propounded this question with the air of a philosopher.

"D'you mean French people?"

"No; I means the French lingo, as my friend Cappen Wopper ca