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“But, as I turned, Fidele uttered a little cry.

“‘The flask, and the sandwich-box, and your poor coat!’

“‘ Comment?‘ I said; and in a moment was in my shirt-sleeves.

“I stared, and I wondered, and I clucked in my throat.

“Holy saints! I was adorned with a breastplate on my back. The friction of descent, first welding together these, the good ministers to our appetite, had worn the metal down in the end to a mere skin or badge, the heat generated from which had scorched and frizzled the cloth beneath it.

“I needed not to seek further explanation of the pain I had suffered–was suffering then, indeed, as I had reason to know when ecstasy permitted a return of sensation. My back bears the scars at this moment.

“‘It shall remain there for ever!’ I cried, ‘like the badge of a cocher de fiacre, who has made the fastest journey on record. ‘Coachman! from the glacier to the valley.’ ‘ Mais oui, monsieur. Down this crevasse, if you please.’

“And that is the history of our adventure.

“Why we were not dashed to pieces? But that, as I accept it, is easy of elucidation. Imagine a vast crescent moon, with a downward nick from the end of the tail. This form the fissure took, in one enormous sweep and drop towards the mouth of the valley. Now, as we rushed headlong, the gentle curve received us from space to substance quite gradually, until we were whirring forward wholly on the latter, my luggage suffering the brunt of the friction. The upward sweep of the crescent diminished our progress–more and yet more–until we switched over the lower point and shot quietly down the incline beyond. And all this in ample room, and without meeting with a single unfriendly obstacle.

“‘ Voila, mes chers amis, ce qui me met en peine.’

“Fidele laughs, the rogue!

“‘Ta, ta, ta!’ she says. ‘But they will not believe a word of it all.'”