Each put on his shoes and hung his biscuits around his neck.
The First Consul, stationed at the foot of the mountain, gave to each cannon detachment the word to start.
A man must traverse the same roads as a tourist, on foot or on mule-back, he must plunge his eye to the depth of the precipice, before he can have any idea of what this crossing was.

Up, always up those beetling slopes, by narrow paths, on jagged stones, which cut the shoes first, the feet next! From time to time they stopped, drew breath, and then on again without a murmur.

The ice-belt was reached.

Before attempting it the men received new shoes; those of the morning were in shreds.

A biscuit was eaten, a drop of brandy from the canteen was swallowed, and on they went.