faster and faster as we edged on to the slopes of the great Hochstetter Dome on our right, whilst opposite, Mount Elie de Beaumont showered down his ice streams to join the Tasman.
Taking turns at leading, at last we came to what looked like the final rise. An exclamation broke from Johnson as he espied the new moon appear over the saddle ahead. It was a small matter, but it seemed to revive our failing energy and to call us on to victory to see the silver crescent apparently awaiting us on the snow ridge. Then a distant peak appeared—a wild cheer broke from us; another peak, and yet one more, followed by groups of twos and threes, dozens, hundreds—glaciers! forest! a river! the sea! the boundless ocean! 'Hurrah!' we shouted, 'our tramp has not been in vain.'
Here we were in the heart of Nature's solitudes, where only once before the foot of man had trodden the eternal snows.
We spent forty-five minutes refreshing the inner man and drinking in the glorious view, consulting maps, and reading the aneroid. The saddle was 8,600 feet high; the Dome was but 9,315 feet. Should we try it? Yes, we would.
At it we went, cutting many steps and crossing several awkward bergschrunds, until we reached a level plateau. Crossing this field we attacked the final slopes. It was terrific work, and the last pinch required 280 steps, all cut with the spike of the axe and deeply graven, as a slip in such a place would probably have meant the loss of the entire party in one of the crevasses in the slope below.
