Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XVII. Doctors
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sudden jerk, the black bearded head of Boisson
popped out of the snow. He drew a deep gasp,
pulled instantly the rope round his waist and
dragged his half dazed companion out of his
grave.
“How long does it take to freeze to death?”
I asked.
Boisson’s quick eyes wandered round the walls
of our prison and stopped riveted to a thin bridge
of ice spanning the slanting walls of the crevasse
like the flying buttress of a Gothic cathedral.
“If I had an ice axe and if I could reach that
bridge,” he said, “I believe I could cut my way
out.”
I handed him the ice axe my fingers were
clasping with an almost cataleptic grip.
“Steady, for God’s sake steady,” he repeated
as, standing on my shoulders like an acrobat he
swung himself on to the ice bridge above our
heads. Hanging on to the slanting walls with
his hands he cut his way step by step out of the
crevasse and dragged me up with the rope. With
great difficulty we hoisted up the other guide
still half stunned. The avalanche had swept
away the usual traces of the landmarks, we
had only one ice axe between us to warn us
against falling into some crevasse hidden under
the fresh snow. That we reached the hut after
midnight was according to Boisson even a greater
miracle than that we got out of the crevasse.
The hut was almost buried under the snow, we
had to break a hole through the roof to enter it.
We fell headlong on the floor. I drank to the
last drop the rancid oil of the little oil lamp
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