In a minute or two he lowered it.
"Gently," he said, "gently," gazing downward with a queer absorption.
Chayne began to hear Francois' labored breathing and then suddenly at the edge of the crevasse he saw appear the hair of a man's head.
"Up with him," cried a guide; there was a quick strong pull upon the rope and out of the chasm, above the white level of the glacier, there appeared a face--not Francois' face--but the face of a dead man.

Suddenly it rose into the colorless light, pallid and wax-like, with open, sightless eyes and a dropped jaw, and one horrid splash of color on the left forehead, where blood had frozen.

It was the face of Chayne's friend, John Lattery; and in a way most grotesque and horrible it bobbed and nodded at him, as though the neck was broken and the man yet lived.
When Francois just below cried, "Gently! Gently," it seemed that the dead man's mouth was speaking.
Chayne uttered a cry; then a deathly sickness overcame him.

He dropped the rope, staggered a little way off like a drunken man and sat down upon the ice with his head between his hands.
Some while later a man came to him and said: "We are ready, monsieur." Chayne returned to the crevasse.

Lattery's guide had been raised from the crevasse.