In some respects the danger to the bold adventurer was now not so great because, being, as it were, flat against the ice-cliffs, falling rocks were more likely, by striking some projection, to bound beyond him. Still there was the danger of deflected shots, and when, by cutting a succession of notches in which to place one foot at a time, he had ascended to the height of an average three-storey house, the danger of losing his balance or slipping a foot became very great indeed. But the man of science persevered in doing what he conceived to be his duty with as much coolness as if he were the leader of a forlorn hope. Following the example of experienced ice-men on steep places, he took good care to make the notches or steps slope a little inwards, never lifted his foot from one step until the next was ready, and never swung his axe until his balance was perfectly secured. Having gained a height of about thirty feet, he pierced a hole with his auger, fastened a stake in it, and descended amid a heavy cannonade of boulders and a smart fire of smaller débris.
During the whole proceeding Lawrence directed his friend as to the placing of the stake, and watched with surprise as well as anxiety, while Captain Wopper kept on shouting unintelligible words of warning in a state of extreme agitation. The guide returned just in time to see this part of the work completed, and to remonstrate gravely with the Professor on his reckless conduct.
“‘All’s well that ends well,’ Antoine, as a great poet says,” replied the Professor, with one of his most genial smiles. “We must run some risk in the pursuit of scientific investigation. Now then, Lawrence, I hope you have got the three stakes in the same line—let me see.”
Applying his eye to the theodolite, he found that the stakes were in an exactly perpendicular line, one above another. He then carefully marked the spot occupied by the instrument and thus completed his labours for that time.
We may add here in passing that next day he returned to the same place, and found that in twenty-four hours the bottom stake had moved downwards a little more than two inches, the middle stake had descended a little more than three, and the upper stake exactly six inches. Thus he was enabled to corroborate the fact which had been ascertained by other men of science before him, that glacier-motion is more rapid at the top than at the bottom, where the friction against its bed tends to hinder its advance, and that the rate of flow increases gradually from the bottom upwards.
While these points of interest were being established, our artist was not less earnestly engaged in prosecuting his own peculiar work, to the intense interest of Gillie, who, although he had seen and admired many a picture in the London shop-windows, had never before witnessed the actual process by which such things are created.
Wandering away on the glacier among some fantastically formed and towering blocks or obelisks of ice, Mr Slingsby expressed to Gillie his admiration of their picturesque shapes and delicate blue colour, in language which his small companion did not clearly understand, but which he highly approved of notwithstanding.
“I think this one is worth painting,” cried Slingsby, pausing and throwing himself into an observant attitude before a natural arch, from the roof of which depended some large icicles; “it is extremely picturesque.”
“I think,” said Gillie, with earnest gravity, “that yonder’s one as is more picturesker.”
He had carefully watched the artist’s various observant attitudes, and now threw himself into one of these as he pointed to a sloping obelisk, the size of an average church-steeple, which bore some resemblance to the leaning-tower of Pisa.