had been successful, and we hauled and pulled till the Tartar, with his black hair and beard well powdered with snow and ice, reappeared. He was much delighted at the recovery of his weapon, and gave me several sound slaps on the back, indicative of his affection and goodwill. His satisfaction then took a more pleasing form, and he insisted on taking my knapsack in addition to his own.
Instead of returning by our pass of two days since, we struck up a small glacier leading to a gap a few hundred yards further from Shkara, and perhaps 500 feet higher. Access to it is rather easier for a loaded Tartar, and the descent on the Bezingi side is admirably suited for a glissade.
As we reached the crest a fierce blast of wind buried us in a cloud of frozen snow and flakes of ice, torn from the slopes behind us. We fled before its resistless rush, and, glissading, running, and tumbling head over heels, shot down to the glacier below. Arrived on the moraine, which runs like a path along the side of the glacier, the porter unloaded the firewood, and the bundle was carefully concealed beneath a great stone. The storm, by this time, had enveloped all the ridges in masses of dirty, evil-looking cloud. Portentous growls and long reverberating peals of thunder issued from the impenetrable gloom, suggesting the near advent of rain. We sped along the moraine, or rather Zurfluh and I did; the Tartar seemed to be usually seated on a
