We Had Now Arrived At The Most Dangerous Part Of The Pass. The Pathway, Hewn Out Of The Solid Rock, And About Ten Feet Wide, Was Covered With A Solid Layer Of Ice Eight Or Ten Inches Thick, Over Which Our Horses Skated About In A Most Uncomfortable Manner.

There was no guard-rail or protection of any sort on the precipice side.

All went well for a time, and I was beginning to congratulate myself on having reached the summit without-accident, when Gerdme's horse, just in front of me, blundered and nearly lit on his head. "Ah, son of a pig's mother!" yelled the little Russian in true Cossack vernacular, as the poor old screw, thoroughly done up, made a desperate peck, ending in a slither that brought him to within a foot of the brink. "That was a close shave, monsieur!" he continued, as his pony struggled back into safety, "I shall get off and walk. Wet feet are better than a broken neck any day!"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a loud cry from the Shagird, and a snort and struggle from the pack-horse behind, attracted my attention. This time the beast had slipped with a vengeance, and was half-way over the edge, making, with his fore feet, frantic efforts to regain _terra firma_ while his hind legs and quarters dangled in mid-air. There was no time to dismount and render assistance. The whole thing was over in less than ten seconds.

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