and tied to his back was his gold-pan, the hollow side in, of course.
Shon's was tied a little lower down than the others.

They passed up this solid river of ice, this giant power at endless
strife with the high hills, up towards its head. The Honourable was the
first to reach the point of vantage, and to look down upon the vast and
wandering fissures, the frigid bulwarks, the great fortresses of ice, the
ceaseless snows, the aisles of this mountain sanctuary through which
Nature's splendid anthems rolled. Shon was a short distance below, with
his hand over his eyes, sweeping the semi-circle of glory.

Suddenly there was a sharp cry from Pierre: "Mon Dieu! Look!"

Shon McGann had fallen on a smooth pavement of ice. The gold-pan was
beneath him, and down the glacier he was whirled-whirled, for Shon had
thrust his heels in the snow and ice, and the gold-pan performed a series
of circles as it sped down the incline. His fingers clutched the ice and
snow, but they only left a red mark of blood behind. Must he go the
whole course of that frozen slide, plump into the wild depths below?

"'Mon Dieu!--mon Dieu!'" said Pretty Pierre, piteously. The face of the
Honourable was set and tense.

Jo Gordineer's hand clutched his throat as if he choked. Still Shon
sped. It was a matter of seconds only. The tragedy crowded to the awful
end.

But, no.

There was a tilt in the glacier, and the gold-pan, suddenly swirling,