Seated one morning on an easy chair in Susan Quick's apartment and
swinging his little blue legs to and fro in a careless, negligent
manner, Gillie White announced it as his opinion that Mister Lewis had
gone, or was fast going, mad.
"Why do you think so?" asked Susan, with a smile, looking up for a
moment from some portion of Lewis's nether integuments, which Mont Blanc
had riven almost to shreds.
"W'y do I think so?" repeated Gillie; "w'y, cos he's not content with
havin' busted his boots an' his clo'se, an' all but busted hisself, in
goin' to the top o' Mont Blang an' Monty Rosa, an' all the other
Monty-thingumbobs about but he's agoin' off to day with that queer fish
Laycrwa to hunt some where up above the clouds--in among the stars, I
fancy--for shamwas."
"Indeed!" said Susan, with a neat little laugh.
"Yes, indeed. He's mountain-mad--mad as a Swiss March hare, if not
madder--By the way, Susan, wot d'ee think o' the French?"
Gillie propounded this question with the air of a philosopher.
"D'you mean French people?"
"No; I means the French lingo, as my friend Cappen Wopper calls it."
"Well, I can't say that I have thought much about it yet. Missis keeps
me so busy that I haven't time."
"Ah!" said Gillie, "you're wastin' of precious opportoonities, Susan.
I've bin a-studdyin' of that lingo myself, now, for three weeks--off and
on."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Susan, with an amused glance, "and what do _you_
think of it?"
"Think of it! I think it's the most outrageous stuff as ever was. The
man who first inwented it must 'ave 'ad p'ralersis o' the brain, besides
a bad cold in 'is 'ead, for most o' the enns an' gees come tumblin'
through the nose, but only git half out after all, as if the speaker was
afraid to let 'em go, lest he shouldn't git hold of 'em again. There's
that there mountain, now. They can't call it Mont Blang, with a good
strong out-an'-out bang, like a Briton would do, but they catches hold
o' the gee when it's got about as far as the bridge o' the nose, half
throttles it and shoves it right back, so that you can scarce hear it at
all. An' the best joke is, there ain't no gee in the word at all!"
"No?" said Susan, in surprise.
"No," repeated Gillie. "I've bin studdyin' the spellin' o' the words in
shop-winders an' posters, an', would you b'lieve it, they end the word
Blang with a _c_."
"You don't say so!"
"Yes I do; an' how d'ee think they spell the name o' that feller
Laycrwa?"
"I'm sure I don't know," answered Susan.
"They spells it," returned Gillie, with a solemn look, "L-e-c-r-o-i-x.
Now, if _I_ had spelt it that way, I'd have pronounced it Laycroiks.
Wouldn't you?"
"Well, yes, I think I should," said Susan.
"It seems to me," continued Gillie, "that they goes on the plan of
spellin' one way an' purnouncin' another--always takin' care to choose
the most difficult way, an' the most unnatt'ral, so that a feller has no
chance to come near it except by corkin' up one nostril tight, an'
borin' a small extra hole in the other about half-way up. If you was to
mix a sneeze with what you said, an' paid little or no attention to the
sense, p'raps it would be French--but I ain't sure. I only wish you
heard Cappen Wopper hoistin' French out of hisself as if he was a wessel
short-handed, an' every word was a heavy bale. He's werry shy about it,
is the Cappen, an' wouldn't for the world say a word if he thought any
one was near; but when he thinks he's alone with Antoine--that's our
guide, you know--he sometimes lets fly a broadside o' French that
well-nigh takes my breath away."
The urchin broke into a laugh here at the memory of the Captain's
efforts to master what he styled a furrin' tongue, but Susan checked him
by saying slily, "How could you know, Gillie, if the Captain was _alone_
with Antoine?"
"Oh, don't you know," replied Gillie, trying to recover his gravity,
"the Cappen he's wery fond o' me, and I like to gratify his feelin's by
keepin' near him. Sometimes I keep so near--under the shadow of his
huge calf d'ee see--that he don't observe me on lookin' round; an',
thinkin' he's all alone, lets fly his French broadsides in a way that
a'most sends Antoine on his beam-ends. But Antoine is tough, he is. He
gin'rally says, `I not un'r'stan' English ver' well,' shakes his head
an' grins, but the Cappen never listens to his answers, bein' too busy
loadin' and primin' for another broadside."
The man to whom he referred cut short the conversation at this point by
shouting down the stair:--
"Hallo! Gillie, you powder-monkey, where are my shoes?"
"Here they are, Cappen, all ready; fit to do dooty as a lookin'-glass to
shave yerself," cried the "powder-monkey," leaping up and leaving the
room abruptly.
Gillie's opinion in regard to the madness of Lewis was shared by several
of his friends above stairs. Doctor Lawrence, especially, felt much
anxiety about him, having overheard one or two conversations held by the
guides on the subject of the young Englishman's recklessness.
"Really, Lewis," said the Doctor, on one occasion, "you _must_ listen to
a lecture from me, because you are in a measure under my charge."
"I'm all attention, sir," said Lewis meekly, as he sat down on the edge
of his bed and folded his hands in his lap.
"Well then, to begin," said the Doctor, with a half-serious smile, "I
won't trouble you with my own opinion, to which you attach no weight--"
"Pardon me, Lawrence, I attach great weight to it--or, rather, it has so
much weight that I can scarcely bear it."
"Just so, and therefore you shan't have it. But you must admit that the
opinion of a good guide is worth something. Now, I heard Antoine
Grennon the other day laying down some unquestionable principles to the
Professor--"
"What! lecturing the Professor?" interrupted Lewis, "how very
presumptuous."
"He said," continued the Doctor, "that the dangers connected with the
ascent of these Swiss mountains are _real_, and, unless properly
provided against, may become terrible, if not fatal. He instanced your
own tendency to go roving about among the glaciers _alone_. With a
comrade or a guide attached to you by a rope there is no danger worth
speaking of, but it must be as clear to you as it is to me that it when
out on the mountains alone, you step on a snow-covered crevasse and
break through, your instant death is inevitable."
"Yes, but," objected Lewis, with that unwillingness to be convinced
which is one of the chief characteristics of youth, "I always walk, when
_alone_ on the glaciers, with the utmost caution, sounding the snow in
front of me with the long handle of my axe at every step as I go."
"If the guides do not find this always a sufficient protection for
themselves, by what amazing power of self-sufficiency do you persuade
yourself that it is sufficient for _you_?" demanded Lawrence.
"Your question suffices, Doctor," said Lewis, laughing; "go on with your
lecture, I'm all attention and, and humility."
"Not my lecture," retorted Lawrence, "the guide's. He was very strong,
I assure you, on the subject of men going on the high glaciers _without
a rope_, or, which comes to the same thing, _alone_, and he was not less
severe on those who are so foolhardy, or so ignorant, as to cross steep
slopes of ice on new-fallen snow. Nothing is easier, the new snow
affording such good foothold, as you told us the other day when
describing your adventures under the cliffs of Monte Rosa, and yet
nothing is more dangerous, says Antoine, for if the snow were to slip,
as it is very apt to do, you would be smothered in it, or swept into a
crevasse by it. Lives are lost in the Alps _every year_, I am told,
owing to indifference to these two points. The guides say--and their
opinions are corroborated by men of science and Alpine experience--that
it is dangerous to meddle with any slope exceeding 30 degrees for
several days after a heavy fall, and yet it is certain that slopes
exceeding this angle are traversed annually by travellers who are
ignorant, or reckless, or both. Did you not say that the slope which
you crossed the other day was a steeper angle than this, and the snow on
it not more than twenty-four hours' old?"
"Guilty!" exclaimed Lewis, with a sigh.
"I condemn you, then," said Lawrence, with a smile, "to a continuation
of this lecture, and, be assured, the punishment is much lighter than
you deserve. Listen:--There are three unavoidable dangers in Alpine
climbing--"
"Please don't be long on each head," pleaded Lewis, throwing himself
back in his bed, while his friend placed the point of each finger of his
right hand on a corresponding point of the left, and crossed his legs.
"I won't. I shall be brief--brief as your life is likely to be if you
don't attend to me. The three dangers are, as I have said, unavoidable;
but two of them may be guarded against; the other cannot. First, there
is danger from _falling rocks_. This danger may be styled positive. It
hangs over the head like the sword of Damocles. There is no avoiding it
except by not climbing at all, for boulders and ice-blocks are perched
here, and there, and everywhere, and no one can tell the moment when
they shall fall. Secondly, there is danger from crevasses--the danger
of tumbling into one when crossing a bridge of snow, and the danger of
breaking through a crust of snow which conceals one. This may be called
a negative danger. It is reduced to almost nothing if you are tied to
your comrade by a rope, and if the leader sounds with his staff as he
walks along; but it changes from a negative to a positive danger to the
man who is so mad as to go out _alone_. Thirdly, there is danger from
new snow on steep slopes, which is positive if you step on it when
recently fallen, and when the slope is very steep; but is negative when
you allow sufficient time for it to harden. While, however, it is
certain that many deaths occur from these three dangers being neglected,
it is equally true that the largest number of accidents which occur in
the Alps arise chiefly from momentary indiscretions, from false steps,
the result of carelessness or self-confidence, and from men attempting
to do what is beyond their powers. Men who are too old for such
fatigue, and men who, though young, are not sufficiently strong, usually
come to grief. I close my lecture with a quotation from the writings of
a celebrated mountaineer--`In all cases the man rather than the mountain
is at fault.'"
"There is truth in what you say," observed Lewis, rising, with a yawn.
"Nay, but," returned his friend, seriously, "your mother, who is made
very anxious by your reckless expeditions, begged me to impress these
truths on you. Will you promise me, like a good fellow, to consider
them?"
"I promise," said Lewis, becoming serious in his turn, and taking his
friend's hand; "but you must not expect sudden perfection to be
exemplified in me.--Come, let's go have a talk with Le Croix about his
projected expedition after the chamois."
Up in the mountains now,--above some of the clouds undoubtedly, almost
'mong the stars, as Gillie put it,--Lewis wanders in company with
Baptist Le Croix, half-forgetful of his promise to Lawrence. Below them
lies a world of hills and valleys; above towers a fairy-land of ice,
cliff, and cloud. No human habitation is near. The only indications of
man's existence are so faint, and so far off in the plains below, that
houses are barely visible, and villages look like toys. A sea of cloud
floats beneath them, and it is only through gaps in this sea that the
terrestrial world is seen. Piercing through it are the more prominent
of the Alpine peaks--the dark tremendous obelisk of the Matterhorn
towering in one direction, the not less tremendous and far grander head
of Mont Blanc looming in another. The sun shines brightly over all,
piercing and rendering semi-transparent some of the clouds, gilding the
edges and deepening the shadows of others.
"Do you see anything, Le Croix?" asked Lewis, as he reclined on a narrow
ledge of rock recovering breath after a fatiguing climb, while his
comrade peered intently through a telescope into the recesses of a dark
mountain gorge that lay a little below them.
For some moments the hunter made no reply. Presently he closed the
glass, and, with an air of satisfaction, said, "Chamois!"
"Where?" asked Lewis, rising eagerly and taking the glass.
Le Croix carefully pointed out the spot but no effort on the part of the
inexperienced youth could bring anything resembling the light and
graceful form of a chamois into the field of vision.
"Never mind, Le Croix," he said, quickly returning the glass and picking
up his rifle; "come along, let's have at them."
"Softly," returned the hunter; "we must get well to leeward of them
before we can venture to approach."
"Lead where you will; you'll find me a quiet and unquestioning
follower."
The hunter at once turned, and, descending the mountain by a precipice
which was so steep that they had in some places to drop from ledge to
ledge, at last gained a position where the light air, that floated but
scarce moved the clouds, came direct from the spot where the chamois
lay. He then turned and made straight towards them. As they advanced
the ground became more rugged and precipitous, so that their progress
was unavoidably slow, and rendered more so by the necessity that lay on
them of approaching their game without noise.
When they had reached a spot where a sheer precipice appeared to render
further progress impossible, the hunter stopped and said in a low tone,
"Look, they are too far off; a bullet could not reach them."
Lewis craned his neck over the cliff, and saw the chamois grazing
quietly on a small patch of green that lay among brown rocks below.
"What's to be done?" he asked anxiously. "Couldn't we try a long shot?"
"Useless. Your eyes are inexperienced. The distance is greater than
you think."
"What, then, shall we do?"
Le Croix did not answer. He appeared to be revolving some plan in his
mind. Turning at last to his companion, he said--
"I counsel that you remain here. It is a place near to which they must
pass if driven by some one from below. I will descend."
"But how descend?" asked Lewis. "I see no path by which even a goat
could get down."
"Leave that to me," replied the hunter. "Keep perfectly still till you
see them within range. Have your rifle ready; do not fire in haste;
there will be time for a slow and sure aim. Most bad hunters owe their
ill-luck to haste."
With this advice Le Croix crept quietly round a projecting rock, and,
dropping apparently over the precipice, disappeared.
Solitude is suggestive. As long as his companion was with him, Lewis
felt careless and easy in mind, but now that he was left alone in one of
the wildest and grandest scenes he had yet beheld, he became solemnised,
and could not help feeling, that without his guide he would be very
helpless in such a place. Being alone in the mountains was not indeed
new to him. As we have already said, he had acquired the character of
being much too reckless in wandering about by himself; but there was a
vast difference between going alone over ground which he had traversed
several times with guides in the immediate neighbourhood of Chamouni,
and being left in a region to which he had been conducted by paths so
intricate, tortuous, and difficult, that the mere effort to trace back
in memory even the last few miles of the route confused him.
There was a mysterious stillness, too, about everything around him; and
the fogs, which floated in heavy masses above and below, gave a
character of changeful wildness to the scenery.
"What a place to get lost in and benighted!" he thought. Then his mind,
with that curious capacity for sudden flight, which is one of the chief
characteristics of thought, leaped down the precipices, up which he had
toiled so slowly, sped away over hill and dale, and landed him in
Chamouni at the feet of Nita Horetzki. Once there, he had no desire to
move. He kept looking steadily in her pretty face, speculated as to the
nature of the charm that rendered it so sweet, wondered what was the
cause of the lines of care that at times rippled her smooth white brow,
longed to become the sharer of her grief, and her comforter, and
pondered the improbability of his ever being in a position to call her
Nita--darling Nita--sweetest Nita--exquisite Nita! He was still engaged
in creating adjectives at Chamouni when he was brought suddenly back to
the Alpine heights by the sound of a shot. It was repeated in a hundred
echoes by the surrounding cliffs, as he seized his rifle and gazed over
the precipice.
A puff of smoke, hanging like a cloudlet, guided his eyes. Not far in
front of it he saw the fawn-like form of a chamois stretched in death
upon the ground, while two others were seen bounding with amazing
precision and elasticity over the rocks towards him.
He turned at once to an opening among the rocks at his right, for, even
to his unpractised eye, it was obviously impossible that anything
without wings could approach him in front or at his left.
Coolness and promptitude were characteristics of the youth; so that he
sat crouching with the rifle, resting in the palm of his left hand, over
one knee, as motionless as if he had been chiselled from the rock
against which he leaned; but his natural coolness of deportment could
not prevent, though it concealed, a throbbing of anxiety lest the game
should pass out of reach, or behind rocks, which would prevent his
seeing it. For an instant he half-rose, intending to rush to some more
commanding elevation, but remembering the parting advice of Le Croix, he
sank down again and remained steady.
Scarcely had he done so when the clatter of bounding hoofs was heard.
He knew well that the open space, across which he now felt sure the
chamois must pass, was only broad enough to afford the briefest possible
time for an aim. He raised the rifle more than half-way to the
shoulder. Another instant and a chamois appeared like an arrow shooting
athwart the hill-side before him. He fired, and missed! The bullet,
however, which had been destined for the heart of the first animal, was
caught in the brain of that which followed. It sprang high into the
air, and, rolling over several times, lay stretched at full length on
the rocks.
We need not pause to describe the rejoicing of the young sportsman over
his first chamois, or to detail Lecroix's complimentary observations
thereon.
Having deposited their game in a place of safety, the hunter suggested
that, as there was no chance of their seeing any more in that locality,
it would be well to devote the remainder of the day to exploring the
higher slopes of a neighbouring glacier, for, familiar as he was with
all the grander features of the region, there were some of the minuter
details, he said, with which he was unacquainted.
Lewis was a little surprised at the proposal, but, being quite satisfied
with his success, and not unwilling to join in anything that smacked of
exploration, he readily assented; and, ere long, the two aspiring
spirits were high above the spot where the chamois had fallen, and
struggling with the difficulties of couloir and crevasse.
Before quitting the lower ground, they had deposited their game and
rifles in a cave well known to Le Croix, in which they intended to pass
the night, and they now advanced armed only with their long-handled
Alpine hatchets, without which implements it is impossible to travel
over glaciers.
Being both of them strong in wind and limb, they did not pause often to
rest, though Lewis occasionally called a momentary halt to enjoy the
magnificent prospect. During one of these pauses a dark object was seen
moving over the ice far below them.
Le Croix pointed to it, and said that it approached them.
"What is it--a crow?" asked Lewis.
"More like a man; but it is neither," returned the hunter, adjusting his
telescope; "yes, it is, as I fancied, a chamois."
"Then it cannot have seen us," said Lewis, "else it would not approach."
"Nay, it approaches because it has seen us. It mistakes us for
relatives. Let us sit down to deceive it a little."
They crouched beside a piece of ice, and the chamois advanced, until its
pretty form became recognisable by the naked eye. Its motions, however,
were irregular. It was evidently timid. Sometimes it came on at full
gallop, then paused to look, and uttered a loud piping sound, advancing
a few paces with caution, and pausing to gaze again. Le Croix replied
with an imitative whistle to its call. It immediately bounded forward
with pleasure, but soon again hesitated, and stopped. At last it seemed
to become aware of its mistake, for, turning at a tangent, it scoured
away over the ice like wind swooping down from the mountain-summits,
bounded over the crevasses like an india-rubber ball, and was quickly
out of sight.
While gazing with profound interest at this graceful creature, the
explorers were not at first aware that a dark mass of inky cloud was
rapidly bearing down on them, and that one of those wild storms which
sweep frequently over the high Alps seemed to be gathering.
"We must make haste, if we would gain the shelter of our cave," said Le
Croix, rising.
As he spoke, a low rumbling sound was heard behind them. They turned
just in time to see a small avalanche of rocks hopping down the cliffs
towards them. It was so far off, and looked such an innocent rolling of
pebbles, that Lewis regarded it as an insignificant phenomenon. His
companion formed a better estimate of its character, but being at least
five hundred yards to one side of the couloir or snow-slope, down which
it rushed, he judged that they were safe. He was mistaken. Some of the
largest stones flew past quite near them, several striking the glacier
as they passed, and sending clouds of ice-dust over them, and one, as
large as a hogshead, bounding, with awful force, straight over their
heads.
They turned instantly to hasten from so dangerous a spot, but were
arrested by another and much louder rumbling sound.
"Quick, fly, Monsieur!" exclaimed Le Croix, setting his young companion
the example.
Truly there was cause for haste. A sub-glacial lake among the heights
above had burst its icy barriers, and, down the same couloir from which
the smaller avalanche had sprung, a very ocean of boulders, mud, ice,
and _debris_ came crashing and roaring with a noise like the loudest
thunder, with this difference, that there was no intermission of the
roar for full quarter of an hour; only, at frequent intervals, a series
of pre-eminent peals were heard, when boulders, from six to ten feet in
diameter, met with obstacles, and dashed them aside, or broke themselves
into atoms.
Our hunters fled for their lives, and barely gained the shelter of a
giant boulder, when the skirts of the hideous torrent roared past leaped
over an ice-cliff, and was swallowed up by the insatiable crevasses of
the glacier below. For several minutes after they had reached, and
stood panting in, a position of safety, they listened to the thunderous
roar of Alpine artillery, until it died slowly away--as if unwillingly--
in the light pattering of pebbles.
Gratitude to the Almighty for deliverance from a great danger was the
strongest feeling in the heart of the chamois-hunter. Profound
astonishment and joy at having witnessed such an amazing sight,
quickened the pulse of Lewis.
"That was a narrow escape, Le Croix?"
"It was. I never see such a sight without a shudder, because I lost a
brother in such an avalanche. It was on the slopes of the Jungfrau. He
was literally broken to fragments by it."
Lewis expressed sympathy, and his feelings were somewhat solemnised by
the graphic recital of the details of the sad incident with which the
hunter entertained him, as they descended the mountain rapidly.
In order to escape an impending storm, which was evidently brewing in
the clouds above, Lewis suggested that they should diverge from the
route by which they had ascended, and attempt a short cut by a steeper
part of the mountains.
Le Croix looked round and pondered. "I don't like diverging into
unknown parts when in a hurry, and with the day far spent," he said.
"One never knows when a sheer precipice will shut up the way in places
like this."
The youth, however, was confident, and the man of experience was too
amiable and yielding. There was also urgent reason for haste. It was
therefore decided that the steeper slopes should be attempted.
They began with a glissade. A very steep snow-slope happened to be
close at hand. It stretched uninterruptedly down several hundred feet
to one of the terraces, into which the precipitous mountainside at that
place was cut.
"Will you try?" asked Le Croix, looking doubtfully at his companion.
"Of course I will," replied Lewis, shortly. "Where you choose to go I
will follow."
"Have you ever done such work before?"
"Yes, often, though never on quite so steep or long a slope."
Le Croix was apparently satisfied. He sat down on the summit of the
slope, fixed the spiked end of his axe in the snow, resting heavily on
the handle, in order to check his descent, and hitched himself forward.
"Keep steady and don't roll over," he cried, as he shot away. The snow
rose and trailed like a white tail behind him. His speed increased
almost to that of an avalanche, and in a few seconds he was at the
bottom.
Lewis seated himself in precisely the same manner, but overbalanced
himself when halfway down, swung round, lost self-command, let slip his
axe, and finally went head over heels, with legs and arms flying wildly.
Le Croix, half-expecting something of the kind, was prepared. He had
re-ascended the slope a short way, and received the human avalanche on
his right shoulder, was knocked down violently as a matter of course,
and the two went spinning in a heap together to the bottom.
"Not hurt, I hope?" cried Lewis, jumping up and looking at his comrade
with some anxiety.
"No, Monsieur," replied Le Croix, quietly, as he shook the snow from his
garments--"And you?"
"Oh! I'm all right. That was a splendid beginning. We shall get down
to our cave in no time at this rate."
The hunter shook his head. "It is not all glissading," he said, as they
continued the descent by clambering down the face of a precipice.
Some thousands of feet below them lay the tortuous surface of a glacier,
on which they hoped to be able to walk towards their intended
night-bivouac, but the cliffs leading to this grew steeper as they
proceeded. Some hours' work was before them ere the glacier could be
reached, and the day was already drawing towards its close. A feeling
of anxiety kept them both silent as they pushed on with the utmost
possible speed, save when it was necessary for one to direct the other
as to his foothold.
On gaining each successive ledge of the terraced hill-side, they walked
along it in the hope of reaching better ground, or another snow-slope;
but each ledge ended in a precipice, so that there was no resource left
but to scramble down to the ledge below to find a similar
disappointment. The slopes also increased, rather than decreased, in
steepness, yet so gradually, that the mountaineers at last went dropping
from point to point down the sheer cliffs without fully realising the
danger of their position. At a certain point they came to the head of a
slope so steep, that the snow had been unable to lie on it, and it was
impossible to glissade on the pure ice. It was quite possible, however,
to cut foot-holes down. Le Croix had with him a stout Manilla rope of
about three hundred feet in length. With this tied round his waist, and
Lewis, firmly planted, holding on to it, he commenced the staircase.
Two blows sufficed for each step, yet two hours were consumed before the
work was finished. Re-ascending, he tied the rope round Lewis, and thus
enabled him to descend with a degree of confidence which he could not
have felt if unattached. Le Croix himself descended without this moral
support, but, being as sure-footed as a chamois, it mattered little.
Pretty well exhausted by their exertions, they now found themselves at
the summit of a precipice so perpendicular and unbroken, that a single
glance sufficed to convince them of the utter impossibility of further
descent in that quarter. The ledge on which they stood was not more
than three feet broad. Below them the glacier appeared in the fading
light to be as far off as ever. Above, the cliffs frowned like
inaccessible battlements. They were indeed like flies clinging to a
wall, and, to add to their difficulties, the storm which had threatened
now began in earnest.
A cloud as black as pitch hung in front of them. Suddenly, from its
heart, there gushed a blinding flash of lightning, followed, almost
without interval, by a crash of thunder. The echoes took up the sounds,
hurling them back and forward among the cliffs as if cyclopean mountain
spirits were playing tennis with boulders. Rain also descended in
torrents, and for some time the whole scene became as dark as if
overspread with the wing of night.
Crouching under a slight projection of rock, the explorers remained
until the first fury of the squall was over. Fortunately, it was as
short-lived as violent, but its effects were disagreeable, for cataracts
now poured on them as they hurried along the top of the precipice vainly
looking for a way of escape. At last, on coming to one of those checks
which had so often met them that day, Le Croix turned and said--
"There is no help for it, Monsieur, we must spend the night here."
"Here!" exclaimed Lewis, glancing at the cliffs above and the gulf
below.
"It is not a pleasant resting-place," replied the hunter, with a sad
smile, "but we cannot go on. It will be quite dark in half an hour,
when an effort to advance would insure our destruction. The little
light that remains must be spent in seeking out a place to lie on."
The two men, who were thrown thus together in such perilous
circumstances, were possessed of more than average courage, yet it would
be false to say that fear found no place in their breasts. On the
contrary, each confessed to the other the following day that his heart
had sunk within him as he thought of the tremendous cliffs against which
they were stuck, with descent and ascent equally impossible, a narrow
ledge on the precipice-edge for their bed, and a long, wild night before
them. Cowardice does not consist in simple fear. It consists in the
fear of trifles; in unreasonable fear, and in such fear as incapacitates
a man for action. The situation of our explorers was not one of slight
danger. They had the best of reason for anxiety, because they knew not
whether escape, even in daylight, were possible. As to incapacity for
action, the best proof that fear had not brought them to that condition
lay in the fact, that they set about preparations for spending the night
with a degree of vigour amounting almost to cheerfulness.
After the most careful survey, only one spot was found wider than the
rest of the ledge, and it was not more than four feet wide, the
difference being caused by a slight hollow under the rock, which thus
might overhang them--one of them at least--and form a sensation of
canopy. At its best, a bed only four feet wide is esteemed narrow
enough for one, and quite inadequate for two, but when it is considered
that the bed now selected was of hard granite, rather round-backed than
flat, with a sheer precipice descending a thousand feet, more or less,
on one side of it, and a slope in that direction, there will be no
difficulty in conceiving something of the state of mind in which Lewis
Stoutley and Baptist Le Croix lay down to repose till morning in wet
garments, with the thermometer somewhere between thirty-two and zero,
Fahrenheit.
To prevent their rolling off the ledge when asleep, they built on the
edge of the cliff a wall of the largest loose stones they could find.
It was but an imaginary protection at best, for the slightest push sent
some of the stones toppling over, and it necessarily curtailed the
available space. No provisions, save one small piece of bread, had been
brought, as they had intended returning to their cave to feast
luxuriously. Having eaten the bread, they prepared to lie down.
It was agreed that only one at a time should sleep; the other was to
remain awake, to prevent the sleeper from inadvertently moving. It was
also arranged, that he whose turn it was to sleep should lie on the
inner side. But here arose a difference. Le Croix insisted that Lewis
should have the first sleep. Lewis, on the other hand, declared that he
was not sleepy; that the attempt to sleep would only waste the time of
both, and that therefore Le Croix should have the first.
The contention was pretty sharp for a time, but the obstinacy of the
Englishman prevailed. The hunter gave in, and at once lay down straight
out with his face to the cliff, and as close to it as he could squeeze.
Lewis immediately lay down outside of him, and, throwing one arm over
his Lecroix's broad chest gave him a half-jocular hug that a bear might
have enjoyed, and told him to go to sleep. In doing this he dislodged a
stone from the outer wall, which went clattering down into the dark
gulf.
Almost immediately the deep, regular breathing of the wearied hunter
told that he was already in the land of Nod.
It was a strange, romantic position; and Lewis rejoiced, in the midst of
his anxieties, as he lay there wakefully guarding the chamois-hunter
while he slept. It appeared to Lewis that his companion felt the need
of a guardian, for he grasped with both hands the arm which he had
thrown round him.
How greatly he wished that his friends at Chamouni could have even a
faint conception of his position that night! What would Lawrence have
thought of it? And the Captain,--how would _he_ have conducted himself
in the circumstances? His mother, Emma, the Count, Antoine, Gillie,
Susan--every one had a share in his thoughts, as he lay wakeful and
watching on the giddy ledge--and Nita, as a great under-current like the
sub-glacial rivers, kept flowing continually, and twining herself
through all. Mingled with these thoughts was the sound of avalanches,
which ever and anon broke in upon the still night with a muttering like
distant thunder, or with a startling roar as masses of ice tottered over
the brinks of the cascades, or boulders loosened by the recent rain lost
their hold and involved a host of smaller fry in their fall. Twining
and tying these thoughts together into a wild entanglement quite in
keeping with the place, the youth never for one moment lost the sense of
an ever present and imminent danger--he scarce knew what--and the
necessity for watchfulness. This feeling culminated when he beheld Nita
Horetzki suddenly appear standing close above him on a most
dangerous-looking ledge of rock!
Uttering a loud cry of alarm he sought to start up, and in so doing sent
three-quarters of the protecting wall down the precipice with an
appalling rush and rumble. Unquestionably he would have followed it if
he had not been held by the wrist as if by a vice!
"Hallo! take care, Monsieur," cried Le Croix, in a quick anxious tone,
still holding tightly to his companion's arm.
"Why! what? Le Croix--I saw--I--I--saw--Well, well--I do really believe
I have been--I'm ashamed to say--"
"Yes, Monsieur, you've been asleep," said the hunter, with a quiet
laugh, gently letting go his hold of the arm as he became fully
persuaded that Lewis was by that time quite awake and able to take care
of himself.
"Have you been asleep too?" asked Lewis.
"Truly, no!" replied the hunter, rising with care, "but you have had
full three hours of it, so it's my turn now."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Lewis.
"Indeed I do; and now, please, get next the cliff and let me lie
outside, so that I may rest with an easy mind."
Lewis opposed him no longer. He rose, and they both stood up to stamp
their feet and belabour their chests for some time--the cold at such a
height being intense, while their wet garments and want of covering
rendered them peculiarly unfitted to withstand it. The effort was not
very successful. The darkness of the night, the narrowness of their
ledge, and the sleepiness of their spirits rendering extreme caution
necessary.
At last the languid blood began to flow; a moderate degree of warmth was
restored, and, lying down again side by side in the new position, the
hunter and the student sought and found repose.