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.