short gully came down in a very similar manner, but the middle portion was gone, and what remained was a perfect ice-arch. Through this, one saw a second arch with the river foaming under. They were magnificent, and here, too, we had to climb on top, and Macpherson and I were photographed as we stood in the centre of the bridge. At this point he left us: we wanted, if possible, to get some good photographs, and he said he was going to find an easier way back—it may have been shorter, but easier it was not, and involved some terrific gymnastics in the way of scrambling.
I sat down on a boulder in front of the cave, glad to be alone, and free to look in silence—filled with that exultation that comes to the heart of the lover of mountains; and filled, too, with the strange yearning to be one with it all—to understand—to let the solemn majesty of the mountains sink into one’s being. Awe they inspire; and fear too!
At last, from far down near the bush, came a haloo, and we knew Macpherson was getting impatient at our long tarrying, and we started homewards. We had to cross the ice-torrent first, and here, after so many experiences, I nearly disgraced myself by slipping back off a rock; but Transome rescued me, and pulled me safely ashore.
Mr. Macpherson must have whittled away many sticks while waiting, and was confident his new
