“Don’t kick like that sir; pray don’t,” cried Gillie in agonised tones, “you’ll start the boulder wot yer fast to, if you don’t keep still.”
“Oh!” groaned the artist and instantly hung limp and motionless, in which condition he remained while Gillie ran towards the place where he had left the rest of the party, jumping and slipping and falling and yelling over the ice like a maniac in blue and buttons!
“D’ee hear that?” exclaimed Captain Wopper with a startled look, as he and his companions busied themselves packing up their instruments.
Antoine Grennon heard it but made no reply. He was familiar with cries of alarm. Turning abruptly he dashed off at full speed in the direction whence the cries came. The Captain and Professor instantly followed; Lawrence overtook and passed them. In a few minutes they met the terrified boy, who, instead of waiting for them and wasting time by telling what was wrong, turned sharp round, gave one wild wave of his hand, and ran straight back to the ledge from which poor Slingsby hung. Stout willing arms were soon pulling cautiously on the rope, and in a few minutes more the artist lay upon the safe ice, almost speechless from terror, and with a deadly pallor on his brow.
Strange to say the indomitable artist had held on tight to his sketch-book, possibly because it was almost as dear to him as life, but more probably because of that feeling which induces a drowning man to clutch at a straw.
Note 1. We ourselves had the satisfaction of witnessing this wonderful and beautiful phenomenon before having read or heard of it, while on a trip from Chamouni to Martigny over the Tête Noire.