path rises over a saddle of moraine, and then descends again into a valley narrower than the last. Here the ribbon woods had put on their autumn dress, and stood out in patches of pale gold against the olive green and grey of the surrounding mountain scrub. Narrower and narrower grows the valley, and steeper and more rugged the track; the sun had set behind the mountains, and with a mind full of grand opera I compared the stately old white pack-horse, climbing the path before me, and the stalwart, brown-faced guides, swinging along beside him in the fast-gathering dusk, to the scene in "Carmen" where the smugglers seek shelter in the hills, and I longed for some gay Mexican blankets and toreador caps wherewith to drape them and so add the finishing touch of local colour. At length we came to the top of the last stony ridge, and looked down upon our destination, a little hut of galvanized iron built on the scene of Green's fourth camp. Opera vanished before anything so mundane as our hut and the preparations for our evening meal. After this was over we gathered round the open fire-place and discussed plans once more, until it was time to turn in and enjoy our sleep in comfortable bunks, for the last time in many days.
Daybreak saw us setting forth for our final bivouac, laden with all the necessities, but few luxuries, required for five or six days in a high camp. We made good time in the chill morning air over the hummocky ice of the Ball Glacier. All was absolutely silent at this early hour, and one missed the usual tinkle of glacier streams, or the dull boom as they leaped down into some deep moulin, to disappear underground and see the light no more until they plunge into the Tasman River. As we left the glacier, on the far side of the Hochstetter Icefall, and climbed the rough hill of moraine leading to the Haast Ridge, we saw creeping up the glacier a dense bank of south fog. As we stood on the ridge just above the fog level our shadows were thrown on the ice beneath. They were gigantic, and each head
