CHAPTER VIII

SHADOWS

"It is a glorious morning. If the weather holds, your first visit to

the real Alps should be memorable," said Bower.

Helen had just descended the long flight of steps in front of the

hotel. A tender purple light filled the valley. The nearer hills were

silhouetted boldly against a sky of primrose and pink; but the misty

depths where the lake lurked beneath the pines had not yet yielded

wholly to the triumph of the new day. The air had a cold life in it

that invigorated while it chilled. It resembled some _vin frappe_ of

rare vintage. Its fragrant vivacity was ready to burst forth at the

first encouraging hint of a kindlier temperature.

"Why that dubious clause as to the weather?" asked Helen, looking at

the golden shafts of sunlight on the topmost crags of Corvatsch and

the Piz della Margna. Those far off summits were so startlingly vivid

in outline that they seemed to be more accessible than the mist

shrouded ravines cleaving their dun sides. It needed an effort of the

imagination to correct the erring testimony of the eye.

"The moods of the hills are variable, my lady,--femininely fickle, in

fact. There is a proverb that contrasts the wind with woman's mind;

but the disillusioned male who framed it evidently possessed little

knowledge of weather changes in the high Alps, or else he----"

"Did you beguile me out of my cozy room at six o'clock on a frosty

morning to regale me with stale jibes at my sex?"

"Perish the thought, Miss Wynton! My only intent was to explain that

the ancient proverb maker, meaning to be rude, might have found a

better simile."

"Meanwhile, I am so cold that the only mood left in my composition is

one of impatience to be moving."

"Well, I am ready."

"But where is our guide?"

"He has gone on in front with the porter."

"Porter! What is the man carrying?"

"The wherewithal to refresh ourselves when we reach the hut."

"Oh," said Helen, "I had no idea that mountaineering was such a

business. I thought the essentials were a packet of sandwiches and a

flask."

"You will please not be flippant. Climbing is serious work. And you

must moderate your pace. If you walk at that rate from here to Forno,

you will be very, very ill before you reach the hut."

"Ill! How absurd!"

"Not only absurd but disagreeable,--far worse than crossing the

Channel. Even old hands like me are not free from mountain sickness,

though it seizes us at higher altitudes than we shall reach to-day. In

the case of a novice, anything in the nature of hurrying during the

outward journey is an unfailing factor."

They were crossing the golf links, and the smooth path was tempting to

a good walker. Helen smiled as she accommodated herself to Bower's

slower stride. Though the man might possess experience, the woman had

the advantage of youth, the unattainable, and this wonderful hour

after dawn was stirring its ichor in her veins.

"I suppose that is what Stampa meant when he took 'Slow and Sure' for

his motto," she said.

"Stampa! Who is Stampa?"

There was a sudden rasp of iron in his voice. As a rule Bower spoke

with a cultivated languor that almost veiled the staccato accents of

the man of affairs. Helen was so surprised by this unwarranted clang

of anger that she looked at him with wide open eyes.

"He is the driver I told you of, the man who took the wheel off my

carriage during the journey from St. Moritz," she explained.

"Oh, of course. How stupid of me to forget! But, by the way, did you

mention his name?"

"No, I think not. Someone interrupted me. Mr. Dunston came and spoke

to you----"

He laughed gayly and drew in deep breaths of the keen air. He was

carrying his ice ax over his left shoulder. With his right hand he

brushed away a disturbing thought. "By Jove! yes! Dunston dragged me

off to open a bank at baccarat, and you will be glad to hear that I

won five hundred pounds."

"I am glad you won; but who lost so much money?"

"Dunston dropped the greater part of it. Your American friend, Mr.

Spencer, was rather inclined to brag of his prowess in that direction,

it appears. He even went so far as to announce his willingness to play

for four figures; but he backed out of it."

"Do you mean that Mr. Spencer wanted to stake a thousand pounds on a

single game at cards?"

"Evidently he did not want to do it, but he talked about it."

"Yet he impressed me as being a very clear-headed and sensible young

man," said Helen decisively.

"Here, young lady, I must call you to account! In what category do you

place me, then?"

"Oh, you are different. I disapprove of anyone playing for such high

stakes; but I suppose you are used to it and can afford it, whereas a

man who has his way to make in the world would be exceedingly foolish

to do such a thing."

"Pray, how did you come to measure the extent of Spencer's finances?"

"Dear me! Did I say that?"

"I am sorry. Of course, I had no wish to speak offensively. What I

mean is that he may be quite as well able to run a big bank at

baccarat as I am."

"He was telling me yesterday of his early struggles to gain a footing

in some mining community in Colorado, and the impression his words

left on me was that he is still far from wealthy; that is, as one

understands the term. Here we are at the footpath. Shall we follow it

and scramble up out of the ravine, or do you prefer the carriage

road?"

"The footpath, please. But before we drop the subject of cards, which

is unquestionably out of place on a morning like this, let me say that

perhaps I have done the American an injustice. Dunston is given to

exaggeration. He has so little control over his face that it is rank

robbery to bet with him. Such a man is apt to run to extremes. It may

be that Spencer was only talking through his hat, as they say in New

York."

Helen had the best of reasons for rejecting this version of the story.

Her perceptive faculties, always well developed, were strung to high

tension in Maloja. The social pinpricks inflicted there had rendered

her more alert, more cautious, than was her wont. She was quite sure,

for instance, judging from a number of slight indications, that

Spencer was deliberately avoiding any opportunity of making Bower's

acquaintance. More than once, when an introduction seemed to be

imminent, the American effaced himself. Other men in the hotel were

not like that--they rather sought the great man's company. She

wondered if Bower had noticed it. Despite his candid, almost generous,

disclaimer of motive, there was an undercurrent of hostility in his

words that suggested a feeling of pique. She climbed the rocky path in

silence until Bower spoke again.

"How do the boots go?" he asked.

"Splendidly, thanks. It was exceedingly kind of you to take such

trouble about them. I had no idea one had to wear such heavy nails,

and that tip of yours about the extra stockings is excellent."

"You will acknowledge the benefit most during the descent. I have

known people become absolutely lame on the home journey through

wearing boots only just large enough for ordinary walking. As for the

clamping of the nails over the edges of the soles, the sharp stones

render that imperative. When you have crossed a moraine or two, and a

peculiarly nasty _geroell_ that exists beyond the hut, if we have time

to make an easy ascent, you will understand the need of extra strong

footwear."

Helen favored him with a shy smile. "Long hours of reading have

revealed the nature of a moraine," she said; "but, please, what is a

_geroell_?"

"A slope of loose stones. Let me see, what do they call it in

Scotland and Cumberland? Ah, yes, a scree. On the French side of the

Alps the same thing is known as a _casse_."

"How well you know this country and its ways! Have you climbed many of

the well known peaks?"

"Some years ago I scored my century beyond twelve thousand feet. That

is pretty fair for an amateur."

"Have you done the Matterhorn?"

"Yes, four times. Once I followed Tyndall's example, and converted the

summit into a pass between Switzerland and Italy."

"How delightful! I suppose you have met many of the famous guides?"

He laughed pleasantly. "One does not attempt the Cervin or the

Jungfrau without the best men, and in my time there were not twenty,

all told. I had a long talk with our present guide last night, and

found I had used many a track he had only seen from the valley."

"Then----"

A loud toot on a cowhorn close at hand interrupted her. The artist was

a small boy. He appeared to be waiting expectantly on a hillock for

someone who came not.

"Is that a signal?" she asked.

"Yes. He is a _gaumer_, or cowherd,--another word for your Alpine

vocabulary,--the burgher whose cattle he will drive to the pasture has

probably arranged to meet him here."

Bower was always an interesting and well informed companion. Launched

now into a congenial topic, he gave Helen a thoroughly entertaining

lecture on the customs of a Swiss commune. He pointed out the

successive tiers of pastures, told her their names and seasons of use,

and even hummed some verses of the cow songs, or _Kuh-reihen_, which

the men sing to the cattle, addressing each animal by name.

An hour passed pleasantly in this manner. Their guide, a man named

Josef Barth, and the porter, who answered to "Karl," awaited them at

the milk chalet by the side of Lake Cavloccio. Bower, evidently

accustomed to the leadership of expeditions of this sort, tested their

ice axes and examined the ropes slung to Barth's rucksack.

"The Forno is a glacier _de luxe_," he explained to Helen; "but it is

always advisable to make sure that your appliances are in good order.

That _pickel_ you are carrying was made by the best blacksmith in

Grindelwald, and you can depend on its soundness; but these men are so

familiar with their surroundings that they often provide themselves

with frayed ropes and damaged axes."

"In addition to my boots, therefore, I am indebted to you for a

special brand of ice ax," she cried.

"Your gratitude now is as nothing to the ecstasy you will display when

Karl unpacks his load," he answered lightly. "Now, Miss Wynton, _en

route_! You know the path to the glacier already, don't you?"

"I have been to its foot twice."

"Then you go in front. There is no room to walk two abreast. Before we

tackle the ice we will call a halt for refreshments."

From that point till the glacier was reached the climb was laboriously

simple. There was no difficulty and not the slightest risk, even for a

child; but the heavy gradient and the rarefied air made it almost

impossible to sustain a conversation unless the speakers dawdled.

Helen often found herself many yards in advance of the others. She

simply could not help breasting the steeper portions of the track. She

was drawn forward by an intense eagerness to begin the real business

of the day. Bower did not seek to restrain her. He thought her high

spirits admirable, and his gaze dwelt appreciatively on her graceful

poise as she stopped on the crest of some small ravine and looked back

at the plodders beneath. Attractive at all times, she was bewitching

that morning to a man who prided himself on his athletic tastes. She

wore a white knitted jersey and a short skirt, a costume seemingly

devised to reveal the lines of a slender waist and supple limbs. A

white Tam o' Shanter was tied firmly over her glossy brown hair with a

silk motor veil, and the stout boots which she had surveyed so

ruefully when Bower brought them to her on the previous evening after

interviewing the village shoemaker, were by no means so cumbrous in

use as her unaccustomed eyes had deemed them. Even the phlegmatic

guide was stirred to gruff appreciation when he saw her vault on to a

large flat boulder in order to examine an iron cross that surmounted

it.

"_Ach, Gott!_" he grunted, "that Englishwoman is as surefooted as a

chamois."

But Helen had found a name and a date on a triangular strip of metal

attached to the cross. "Why has this memorial been placed here?" she

asked. Bower appealed to Barth; but he shook his head. Karl gave

details.

"A man fell on the Cima del Largo. They carried him here, and he died

on that rock."

"Poor fellow!" Some of the joyous light left Helen's face. She had

passed the cross before, and had regarded it as one of the votive

offerings so common by the wayside in Catholic countries, knowing that

in this part of Switzerland the Italian element predominated among the

peasants.

"We get a fine view of the Cima del Largo from the _cabane_," said

Bower unconcernedly.

Helen picked a little blue flower that nestled at the base of the

rock. She pinned it to her jersey without comment. Sometimes the

callousness of a man was helpful, and the shadow of a bygone tragedy

was out of keeping with the glow of this delightful valley.

The curving mass of the glacier was now clearly visible. It looked

like some marble staircase meant to be trodden only by immortals. Ever

broadening and ascending until it filled the whole width of the rift

between the hills, it seemed to mount upward to infinity. The sidelong

rays of the sun, peeping over the shoulders of Forno and Roseg, tinted

the great ice river with a sapphire blue, while its higher reaches

glistened as though studded with gigantic diamonds. Near at hand,

where the Orlegna rushed noisily from thraldom, the broken surface was

somber and repellent. In color a dull gray, owing to the accumulation

of winter debris and summer dust, it had the aspect of decay and

death; it was jagged and gaunt and haggard; the far flung piles of the

white moraine imposed a stony barrier against its farther progress.

But that unpleasing glimpse of disruption was quickly dispelled by the

magnificent volume and virgin purity of the glacier as a whole. Helen

tried to imagine herself two miles distant, a tiny speck on the great

floor of the pass. That was the only way to grasp its stupendous size,

though she knew that it mounted through five miles of rock strewn

ravine before it touched the precipitous saddle along which runs the

border line between Italy and Switzerland.

Karl's sigh of relief as he deposited his heavy load on a tablelike

boulder brought Helen back from the land of dreams. To this sturdy

peasant the wondrous Forno merely represented a day's hard work, at an

agreed sum of ten francs for carrying nearly half a hundredweight, and

a liberal _pour-boire_ if the voyageurs were satisfied.

Sandwiches and a glass of wine, diluted with water brought by the

guide from a neighboring rill,--glacier water being used only as a

last resource,--were delectable after a steady two hours' walk. The

early morning meal of coffee and a roll had lost some of its flavor

when consumed apparently in the middle of the night, and Helen was

ready now for her breakfast. While they were eating, Bower and Josef

Barth cast glances at some wisps of cloud drifting slowly over the

crests of the southern hills. Nothing was said. The guide read his

patron's wishes correctly. Unless some cause far more imperative than

a slight mist intervened, the day's programme must not be abandoned.

So there was no loitering. The sun was almost in the valley, and the

glacier must be crossed before the work of the night's frost was

undone.

When they stepped from the moraine on to the ice Barth led, Helen

followed, Bower came next, with Karl in the rear.

If it had not been for the crisp crunching sound of the hobnails amid

the loose fragments on the surface, and the ring of the _pickel's_

steel-shod butt on the solid mass beneath, Helen might have fancied

that she was walking up an easy rock-covered slope. Any delusion on

that point, however, was promptly dispelled by a glimpse of a narrow

crevasse that split the foot of the glacier lengthwise.

She peered into its sea-green depths awesomely. It resembled a

toothless mouth gaping slowly open, ready enough to swallow her, but

too inert to put forth the necessary effort. And the thought reminded

her of something. She halted and turned to Bower.

"Ought we not to be roped?" she asked.

He laughed, with the quiet confidence of the expert mountaineer.

"Why?" he cried. "The way is clear. One does not walk into a crevasse

with one's eyes open."

"But Stampa told me that I should refuse to advance a yard on ice or

difficult rock without being roped."

"Stampa, your cab driver?"

There was no reason that she could fathom why her elderly friend's

name should be repeated with such scornful emphasis.

"Ah, yes. He is that because he is lame," she protested. "But he was

one of the most famous guides in Zermatt years ago."

She swung round and appealed to Barth, who was wondering why his

employers were stopping before they had climbed twenty feet. "Are you

from Zermatt?" she demanded.

"No, _fraeulein_--from Pontresina. Zermatt is a long way from here."

"But you know some of the Zermatt men, I suppose? Have you ever heard

of Christian Stampa?"

"Most certainly, _fraeulein_. My father helped him to build the first

hut on the Hoernli Ridge."

"Old Stampa!" chimed in Karl from beneath. "It will be long ere he is

forgotten. I was one of four who carried him down from Corvatsch to

Sils-Maria the day after he fell. He was making the descent by

night,--a mad thing to do,--and there was murder in his heart, they

said. But I never believed it. We shared a bottle of Monte Pulciano

only yesterday, just for the sake of old times, and he was as merry as

Hans von Rippach himself."

Bower was stooping, so Helen could not see his face. He seemed to be

fumbling with a boot lace.

"You hear, Mr. Bower?" she cried. "I am quoting no mean authority."

He did not answer. He had untied the lace and was readjusting it. The

girl realized that to a man of his portly build his present attitude

was not conducive to speech. It had an additional effect which did not

suggest itself to her. The effort thus demanded from heart and lungs

might bring back the blood to a face blanched by a deadly fear.

Karl was stocked with reminiscences of Stampa. "I remember the time

when people said Christian was the best man in the Bernina," he said.

"He would never go back to the Valais after his daughter died. It was

a strange thing that he should come to grief on a cowherd's track like

that over Corvatsch. But Etta's affair----"

"_Schweige!_" snarled Bower, straightening himself suddenly. His dark

eyes shot such a gleam of lambent fury at the porter that the man's

jaw fell. The words were frozen on his lips. He could not have been

stricken dumb more effectually had he come face to face with one of

the horrific sprites described in the folklore of the hills.

Helen was surprised. What had poor Karl done that he should be bidden

so fiercely to hold his tongue? Then she thought that Bower must have

recalled Stampa's history, and feared that perhaps the outspoken

peasant might enter into a piquant account of some village scandal. A

chambermaid in the hotel, questioned about Stampa, had told her that

the daughter he loved so greatly had committed suicide. Really, she

ought to be grateful to her companion for saving her from a passing

embarrassment. But she had the tact not to drop the subject too

quickly.

"If Barth and you agree that roping is unnecessary, of course I

haven't a word to say in the matter," she volunteered. "It was rather

absurd of me to mention it in the first instance."

"No, you were right. I have never seen Stampa; but his name is

familiar. It occurs in most Alpine records. Barth, fix the rope before

we go farther. The _fraeulein_ wishes it."

The rush of color induced by physical effort--effort of a tensity that

Helen was wholly unaware of--was ebbing now before a numbing terror

that had come to stay. His face was drawn and livid. His voice had the

metallic ring in it that the girl had detected once already that day.

Again she experienced a sense of bewilderment that he should regard a

trivial thing so seriously. She was not a child. The world of to-day

pulsated with far too many stories of tragic passion that she should

be shielded so determinedly from any hint of an episode that doubtless

wrung the heart's core of this quiet valley one day in August sixteen

years ago. In some slight degree Bower's paroxysm of anger was a

reflection on her own good taste, for she had unwittingly given rise

to it.

Nevertheless, she felt indebted to him. To extricate both Bower and

herself from an awkward situation she took a keen interest in Barth's

method of adjusting the rope. The man did not show any amazement at

Bower's order. He was there to earn his fee. Had these mad English

told him to cut steps up the gentle slope in front he would have

obeyed without protest, though it was more than strange that this much

traveled _voyageur_ should adopt such a needless precaution.

As a matter of fact, under Barth's guidance, a blind cripple could

have surmounted the first kilometer of the Forno glacier. The track

lay close to the left bank of the moraine. It curved slightly to the

right and soon the exquisite panorama of Monte Roseg, the Cima di

Rosso, Monte Sissone, Piz Torrone, and the Castello group opened up

before the climbers. Helen was enchanted. Twice she half turned to

address some question to Bower; but on each occasion she happened to

catch him in the act of swallowing some brandy from a flask. Governed

by an unaccountable timidity, she pretended not to notice his

actions, and diverted her words to Barth, who told her the names of

the peaks and pointed to the junctions of minor ice fields with the

main artery of the Forno.

Bower did not utter a syllable until they struck out toward the center

of the glacier. A crevasse some ten feet in width and seemingly

hundreds of feet deep, barred the way; but a bridge of ice, covered

with snow, offered safe transit. The snow carpet showed that a number

of climbers had passed quite recently in both directions. Even Helen,

somewhat awed by the dimensions of the rift, understood that the

existence of this natural arch was as well recognized by Alpinists as

Waterloo Bridge is known to dwellers on the south side of the Thames.

"Now, Miss Wynton, you should experience your first real thrill," said

Bower. "This bridge forms here every year at this season, and an army

might cross in safety. It is the genuine article, the first and

strongest of a series. Yet here you cross the Rubicon. A mixture of

metaphors is allowable in high altitudes, you know."

Helen, almost startled at first by the unaffected naturalness of his

words, was unfeignedly relieved at finding him restored to the normal.

Usually his supply of light-hearted badinage was unceasing. He knew

exactly when and how to season it with more serious statements. It is

this rare quality that makes tolerable a long day's solitude _a deux_.

[Illustration: She flourished her ice axe bravely.

_Page 163_]

"I am not Caesar's wife," she replied; "but for the credit of womankind

in general I shall act as though I was above suspicion--of

nervousness."

She did not look round. Barth was moving quickly, and she had no

desire to burden him with a drag on the rope. When she was in the

center of the narrow causeway, a snow cornice in the lip of the

crevasse detached itself under the growing heat of the sun and

shivered down into the green darkness. The incident brought her heart

into her mouth. It served as a reminder that this solid ice river was

really in a state of constant change and movement.

Bower laughed, with all his customary gayety of manner. "That came at

a dramatic moment," he said. "Too bad it could not let you pass

without giving you a quake!"

"I am not a bit afraid."

"Ah, but I can read your thoughts. There is a bond of sympathy between

us."

"Hemp is a non-conductor."

"You are willfully misunderstanding me," he retorted.

"No. I honestly believed you felt the rope quiver a little."

"Alas! it is the atmosphere. My compliments fall on idle ears."

Barth interrupted this play of harmless chaff by jerking some remark

over his shoulder. "Looks like a _guxe_," he said gruffly.

"Nonsense!" said Bower,--"a bank of mist. The sun will soon melt it."

"It's a _guxe_, right enough," chimed in Karl, who had recovered his

power of speech. "That is why the boy was blowing his horn--to show he

was bringing the cattle home."

"Well, then, push on. The sooner we are in the hut the better."

"Please, what is a _guxe_?" asked Helen, when the men had nothing more

to say.

"A word I would have wished to add later to your Alpine phrase book.

It means a storm, a blizzard."

"Should we not return at once in that event?"

"What? Who said just now she was not afraid?"

"But a storm in such a place!"

"These fellows smell a _tourmente_ in every little cloud from the

southwest. We may have some wind and a light snowfall, and that will

be an experience for you. Surely you can trust me not to run any real

risk?"

"Oh, yes. I do, indeed. But I have read of people being caught in

these storms and suffering terribly."

"Not on the Forno, I assure you. I don't wish to minimize the perils

of your first ascent; but it is only fair to say that this is an

exhibition glacier. If it was nearer town you would find an orchestra

in each amphitheater up there, with sideshows in every couloir.

Jesting apart, you are absolutely safe with Barth and me, not to

mention the irrepressible gentleman who carries our provisions."

Helen was fully alive to the fact that a woman who joins a

mountaineering party should not impose her personal doubts on men who

are willing to go on. She flourished her ice ax bravely, and cried,

"Excelsior!"

In the next instant she regretted her choice of expression. The moral

of Longfellow's poem might be admirable, but the fate of its hero was

unpleasantly topical. Again Bower laughed.

"Ah!" he said. "Will you deny now that I am a first rate receiver of

wireless messages?"

She had no breath left for a quip. Barth was hurrying, and the thin

air was beginning to have its effect. When an unusually smooth stretch

of ice permitted her to take her eyes from the track for a moment she

looked back to learn the cause of such haste. To her complete

astonishment, the Maloja Pass and the hills beyond it were dissolved

in a thick mist. A monstrous cloud was sweeping up the Orlegna Valley.

As yet, it was making for the Muretto Pass rather than the actual

ravine of the Forno; but a few wraiths of vapor were sailing high

overhead, and it needed no weatherwise native to predict that ere long

the glacier itself would be covered by that white pall. She glanced at

Bower.

He smiled cheerfully. "It is nothing," he murmured.

"I really don't care," she said. "One does not shirk an adventure

merely because it is disagreeable. The pity is that all this lovely

sunshine must vanish."

"It will reappear. You will be charmed with the novelty in an hour or

less."

"Is it far to the hut?"

"Hardly twenty minutes at our present pace."

A growl from Barth stopped their brief talk. Another huge crevasse

yawned in front. There was an ice bridge, with snow, like others they

had crossed; but this was a slender structure, and the leader stabbed

it viciously with the butt of his ax before he ventured on it. The

others kept the rope taut, and he crossed safely. They followed. As

Helen gained the further side she heard Bower's chuckle:

"Another thrill!"

"I am growing quite used to them," she said.

"Well, it may help somewhat if I tell you that the temporary departure

of the sun will cause this particular bridge to be ten times as strong

when we return."

"Attention!" cried Barth, taking a sharp turn to the left. The meaning

of his warning was soon apparent. They had to descend a few feet of

rough ice, and Helen found, to her great relief it must be confessed,

that they were approaching the lateral moraine. Already the sky was

overcast. The glacier had taken to itself a cold grayness that was

disconcerting. The heavy mist fell on them with inconceivable

rapidity. Shining peaks and towering precipices of naked rock were

swept out of sight each instant. The weather had changed with a

magical speed. The mist advanced with the rush of an express train,

and a strong wind sprang up as though it had burst through a

restraining wall and was bent on overwhelming the daring mortals who

were penetrating its chosen territory.

Somehow--anyhow--Helen scrambled on. She was obliged to keep eyes and

mind intent on each step. Her chief object was to imitate Barth, to

poise, and jump, and clamber with feet and hands exactly as he did. At

this stage the rope was obviously a hindrance; but none of the men

suggested its removal, and Helen had enough to occupy her wits without

troubling them by a question. Even in the stress of her own breathless

exertions she had room in her mind for a wondering pity for the

heavily laden Karl. She marveled that anyone, be he strong as Samson,

could carry such a load and not fall under it. Yet he was lumbering

along behind Bower with a clumsy agility that was almost supernatural

to her thinking. She was still unconscious of the fact that most of

her own struggles were due more to the rarefied air than to the real

difficulties of the route.

At last, when she really thought she must cry out for a rest, when a

steeper climb than any hitherto encountered had bereft her almost of

the power to take another upward spring to the ledge of some enormous

boulder, when her knees and ankles were sore and bruised, and the

skin of her fingers was beginning to fray under her stout gloves, she

found herself standing on a comparatively level space formed of broken

stones. A rough wall, surmounted by a flat pitched roof, stared at her

out of the mist. In the center of the wall a small, square, shuttered

window suggested a habitation. Her head swam, and her eyes ached

dreadfully; but she knew that this was the hut, and strove desperately

to appear self possessed.

"Accept my congratulations, Miss Wynton," said a low voice at her ear.

"Not one woman in a thousand would have gone through that last

half-hour without a murmur. You are no longer a novice. Allow me to

present you with the freedom of the Alps. This is one of the many

chateaux at your disposal."

A wild swirl of sleet lashed them venomously. This first whip of the

gale seemed to have the spitefulness of disappointed rage.

Helen felt her arm grasped. Bower led her to a doorway cunningly

disposed out of the path of the dreaded southwest wind. At that

instant all the woman in her recognized that the man was big, and

strong, and self reliant, and that it was good to have him near,

shouting reassuring words that were whirled across the rock-crowned

glacier by the violence of the tempest.