I rode on a mule to Montanvert, and thence on foot over the Mer de
Glace, clambered up the steep mountain side to Chapeau, went down to the
crystal Grotto and rode from there back to Chamounix. The ride up in the
early hours of the morning was perfect, the mountain air so light; the
mists parted; the pine-trees round the fresh mountain path exhaled a
penetrating fragrance. An American family with whom I had become
acquainted took three guides with them for four persons. One worthy old
gentleman who was travelling with his young daughter, would not venture
upon this feat of daring, but his daughter was so anxious to accompany
us that when I offered to look after her she was entrusted to my care. I
took two mules and a guide, thinking that sufficient. From Montanvert
and down to the glacier, the road was bad, a steep, rocky path, with
loose, rolling stones. When we came to the Ice Sea, the young lady, as
was natural, took the guide's hand, and I, the last of the caravan,
strode cautiously along, my alpenstock in my hand, over the slippery,
billow-like ice. But soon it began to split up into deep crevasses, and
farther on we came to places where the path you had to follow was no
wider than a few hands' breadth, with yawning precipices in the ice on
both sides. I grew hot to the roots of my hair, and occasionally my
heart stood still.
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