48 SPITSBERGEN chap, hi 



clasps tightly in its icy grasp. I thought of Nansen, that 

 gallant Norseman, who, sailing northwards now three years 

 ago, had drifted into the silence of that frozen waste ; and, 

 as I gazed, there crept over me a deep mysterious awe, a 

 shadow from the threshold of the great unknown. It was 

 a scene which I shall never forget. 



But a long distance still separated me from the summit, 

 and at any moment the captain might return and sound 

 the signal for my recall, so stepping carefully along the 

 broken arete, sometimes of ice, sometimes snow, I hurried 

 as fast as possible to the foot of the first of the twin 

 summits. 



No difficulty occurred which would have caused trouble 

 to a properly-constituted party, but climbing alone on a 

 corniced ridge, without rope or ice-axe, was rather ticklish 

 work ; the situation, however, was not devoid of humour, 

 and I laughed aloud, whilst cutting a staircase with my 

 hammer down a nasty dip in the arete, about as wide as 

 my boot, when I thought of the expression which the face 

 of my old tutor, Joseph Imboden, would have worn if he 

 could suddenly have come across me at that moment. 



After many ups and downs, however, I arrived near the 

 summit of the north peak ; skirting below this, I kicked a 

 passage across the snow face and rejoined the arete to the 

 south, and was pounding along this, to what I considered 

 must be the highest point of the ridge, when I thought I 

 heard a faint whistle. Glancing towards the entrance of the 

 bay, I could see a tiny puff of steam floating away from the 

 funnel of the little toy steamer, and as I watched, there came 

 a second little puff, followed by a faint whistle ; this was 

 the signal agreed upon for my recall. Glancing hurriedly 

 round me, I exposed one film and then turned and fled. 



For a time I kept along my previous track, but on reach- 

 ing the foot of a long rise in the arete, I suddenly discovered 



