"Fidèle exclaimed.

"'_Mon Dieu_! Is this ice--these blocks of dirty alabaster?'

"Alas! she was justified. This torrent of majestic crystal--seen from
above so smooth and bountiful--a flood of the milk of Nature dispensed
from the white bosom of the hills! Now, near at hand, what do we find it?
A medley of opaque blocks, smeared with grit and rubbish; a vast ruin of
avalanches hurled together and consolidated, and of the colour of rock
salt.

"'_Peste!_' I cried. 'We must get to the opposite bank, for all that.

"_Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,
Qui ce matin avoit desclose_....'"

"We clasped hands and set forth on our little traversée, our landmark an
odd-shaped needle of spar on the further side. My faith! it was simple.
The _paveurs_ of Nature had left the road a trifle rough, that was all.
Suddenly we came upon a wide fissure stretched obliquely like the mouth
of a sole. Going glibly, we learnt a small lesson of caution therefrom.
Six paces, and we should have tumbled in.

"We looked over fearfully. Here, in truth, was real ice at last--green as
bottle-glass at the edges, and melting into unfathomable deeps of glowing
blue.

"In a moment, with a shriek like that of escaping steam, a windy demon
leapt at us from the underneath. It was all of winter in a breath. It