Daylight--blessed daylight! How often longed for by the sick and weary!
How imperfectly appreciated by those whose chief thoughts and
experiences of night are fitly expressed by the couplet:--
"Bed, bed, delicious bed,
Haven of rest for the weary head."
Daylight came at last, to the intense relief of poor Lewis, who had
become restless as the interminable night wore on, and the cold seemed
to penetrate to his very marrow. Although unable to sleep, however, he
lay perfectly still, being anxious not to interrupt the rest of his
companion. But Le Croix, like the other, did not sleep soundly; he
awoke several times, and, towards morning, began to dream and mutter
short sentences.
At first Lewis paid no attention to this, but at length, becoming weary
of his own thoughts, he set himself with a half-amused feeling to
listen. The amusement gave place to surprise and to a touch of sadness
when he found that the word `gold' frequently dropped from the sleeper's
lips.
"Can it be," he thought, "that this poor fellow is really what they say,
a half-crazed gold-hunter? I hope not. It seems nonsensical. I never
heard of there being gold in these mountains. Yet it may be so, and too
much longing after gold is said to turn people crazy. I shouldn't
wonder if it did."
Thoughts are proverbial wanderers, and of a wayward spirit, and not easy
of restraint. They are often very honest too, and refuse to flatter.
As the youth lay on his back gazing dreamily from that giddy height on
the first faint tinge of light that suffused the eastern sky, his
thoughts rambled on in the same channel.
"Strange, that a chamois-hunter should become a gold-hunter. How much
more respectable the former occupation, and yet how many gold-hunters
there are in the world! Gamblers are gold-hunters; and I was a gambler
once! Aha! Mr Lewis, the cap once fitted you! Fitted, did I say? It
fits still. Have I not been playing billiards every night nearly since
I came here, despite Captain Wopper's warnings and the lesson I got from
poor Leven? Poor Leven indeed! it's little gold that he has, and _I_
robbed him. However, I paid him back, that's one comfort, and my stakes
now are mere trifles--just enough to give interest to the game. Yet,
shame on you, Lewie; can't you take interest in a game for its own sake?
The smallest coin staked involves the spirit of gambling. You
shouldn't do it, my boy, you know that well enough, if you'd only let
your conscience speak out. And Nita seems not to like it too--ah, Nita!
She's as good as gold--as good! ten million times better than the
finest gold. I wonder why that queer careworn look comes over her angel
face when she hears me say that I've been having a game of billiards? I
might whisper some flattering things to myself in reference to this,
were it not that she seems just as much put out when any one else talks
about it. Ah, Nita!"
It is unnecessary to follow the youth's thoughts further, for, having
got upon Nita, they immediately ceased their wayward wandering practices
and remained fixed on that theme.
Soon afterwards, the light being sufficient the mountaineers rose and
continued their descent which was accomplished after much toil and
trouble, and they proceeded at a quick pace over the glacier towards the
place where the chamois had been left the previous day.
"Why are you so fond of gold, Le Croix?" said Lewis, abruptly, and in a
half-jesting tone, as they walked along.
The hunter's countenance flushed deeply, and he turned with a look of
severity towards his companion.
"Who said that I was fond of it?"
"A very good friend of mine," replied Lewis, with a light laugh.
"He can be no friend of mine," returned the hunter, with contracted
brows.
"I'm not so sure of that," said the other; "at least if you count
_yourself_ a friend. You whispered so much about gold in your dreams
this morning that I came to the conclusion you were rather fond of it."
The expression of the hunter changed completely. There seemed to be a
struggle between indignation and sorrow in his breast as he stopped,
and, facing his companion, said, with vehemence--
"Monsieur, I do not count _myself_ a friend. I have ever found _self_
to be my greatest enemy. The good God knows how hard I have fought
against self for years, and how often--oh, how often--I have been beaten
down and overcome. God help me. It is a weary struggle."
Lecroix's countenance and tones changed as rapidly as the cloud-forms on
his own mountain peaks. His last words were uttered with the deepest
pathos, and his now pale face was turned upward, as if he sought for
hope from a source higher than the "everlasting hills." Lewis was
amazed at the sudden burst of feeling in one who was unusually quiet and
sedate, and stood looking at him in silence.
"Young man," resumed the hunter, in a calmer tone, laying his large
brown hand impressively on the youth's shoulder, "you have heard aright.
I have loved gold too much. If I had resisted the temptation at the
first I might have escaped, but I _shall_ yet be saved, ay, despite of
self, for there is a Saviour! For years I have sought for gold among
these mountains. They tell me it is to be found there, but I have never
found it. To-day I intended to have visited yonder yellow cliffs high
up on the shoulder of the pass. Do you see them?"
He pointed eagerly, and a strange gleam was in his blue eyes as he went
on to say rapidly, and without waiting for an answer--
"I have not yet been up there. It looks a likely place--a very likely
place--but your words have turned me from my purpose. The evil spirit
is gone for to-day--perhaps for ever. Come," he added, in a tone of
firm determination, "we will cross this crevasse and hasten down to the
cave."
He wrenched himself round while he spoke, as if the hand of some
invisible spirit had been holding him, and hurried quickly towards a
wide crevasse which crossed their path at that place.
"Had we not better tie ourselves together before attempting it?"
suggested Lewis, hastening after him.
Le Croix did not answer, but quickened his pace to a run.
"Not there!" exclaimed Lewis, in sudden alarm. "It is almost too wide
for a leap, and the snow on the other side overhangs. Stop! for God's
sake--not there!"
He rushed forward, but was too late. Le Croix was already on the brink
of the chasm; next moment, with a tremendous bound, he cleared it, and
alighted on the snow beyond. His weight snapped off the mass, his arms
were thrown wildly aloft, and, with a shout, rather than a cry, he fell
headlong into the dark abyss!
Horror-stricken, unable to move or cry out Lewis stood on the edge.
From far down in the blue depths of the crevasse there arose a terrible
sound, as if of a heavy blow. It was followed by the familiar rattling
of masses of falling ice, which seemed to die away in the profound heart
of the glacier.
The "weary struggle" had come to an end at last. The chamois-hunter had
found a tomb, like too many, alas! of his bold-hearted countrymen, among
those great fields of ice, over which he had so often sped with sure
foot and cool head in days gone by.
Lewis was as thoroughly convinced that his late comrade was dead, as if
he had seen his mangled corpse before him, but with a sort of passionate
unbelief he refused to admit the fact. He stood perfectly motionless,
as if transfixed and frozen, in the act of bending over the crevasse.
He listened intently and long for a sound which yet he knew could never
come. An oppressive, sickening silence reigned around him, which he
suddenly broke with a great and terrible cry, as, recovering from his
stupor, he hurried wildly to and fro, seeking for some slope by which he
might descend to the rescue of his friend.
Vainly he sought. Both walls of the crevasse were sheer precipices of
clear ice. At one spot, indeed, he found a short slope, and, madly
seizing his axe, he cut foot-holds down it, descending, quite regardless
of danger, until the slope became too perpendicular to admit of farther
progress. Struck then with alarm for himself, he returned cautiously to
the top, while beads of cold perspiration stood on his pale brow. A few
minutes more, and he became sufficiently calm to realise the fact that
poor Le Croix was indeed beyond all hope. As the truth was forced into
his heart he covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly.
It was long ere the passionate burst of feeling subsided. Lewis was
very impressionable, and his young heart recoiled in agony from such a
shock. Although the hunter had been to him nothing but a pleasant
guide, he now felt as if he had lost a friend. When his mind was
capable of connected thought he dwelt on the unfortunate man's kindly,
modest, and bold disposition, and especially on the incidents of the
previous night, when they two had lain side by side like brothers on
their hard couch.
At last he rose, and, with a feeling of dead weight crushing his spirit
began to think of continuing his descent. He felt that, although there
was no hope of rescuing life, still no time should be lost in rousing
the guides of Chamouni and recovering, if possible, the remains.
Other thoughts now came upon him with a rush. He was still high up
among the great cliffs, and alone! The vale of Chamouni was still far
distant, and he was bewildered as to his route, for, in whatever
direction he turned, nothing met his eye save wildly-riven glaciers or
jagged cliffs and peaks. He stood in the midst of a scene of savage
grandeur, which corresponded somewhat with his feelings.
His knowledge of ice-craft, if we may use the expression, was by that
time considerable, but he felt that it was not sufficient for the work
that lay before him; besides, what knowledge he possessed could not make
up for the want of a companion and a rope, while, to add to his
distress, weakness, resulting partly from hunger, began to tell on him.
Perhaps it was well that such thoughts interfered with those that
unmanned him, for they served to rouse his spirit and nerve him to
exertion. Feeling that his life, under God, depended on the wisdom,
vigour, and promptitude of his actions during the next few hours, he
raised his eyes upward for a moment, and, perhaps for the first time in
his life, asked help and guidance of his Creator, with the feeling
strong upon him that help and guidance were sorely needed.
Almost at the commencement of his descent an event occurred which taught
him the necessity of extreme caution. This was the slipping of his axe.
He had left the fatal crevasse only a few hundred yards behind him,
when he came to a fracture in the ice that rendered it impossible to
advance in that direction any longer; he therefore turned aside, but was
met by a snow slope which terminated in another yawning crevasse. While
standing on the top of this, endeavouring to make up his mind as to the
best route to be followed, he chanced to swing his axe carelessly and
let it fall. Instantly it turned over the edge, and shot like an arrow
down the slope. He was ice-man enough to know that the loss of his axe
in such circumstances was equivalent to the signing of his death-warrant
and his face flushed with the gush of feeling that resulted from the
accident. Fortunately, the head of the weapon caught on a lamp of ice
just at the edge of the crevasse, and the handle hung over it.
Something akin to desperation now took possession of the youth. The
slope _was_ far too steep to slide down. Not having his axe, it was
impossible to cut the necessary steps. In any case it was excessively
dangerous, for, although the snow was not new, it lay on such an incline
that the least weight on it might set it in motion, in which case
inevitable death would have been the result. The case was too critical
to admit of delay or thought. At all hazards the axe must be recovered.
He therefore lay down with his face to the slope, and began to kick
foot-holds with the toe of his boots. It was exceedingly slow and
laborious work, for he dared not to kick with all his force, lest he
should lose his balance, and, indeed, he only retained it by thrusting
both arms firmly into the upper holes and fixing one foot deep in a
lower hole, while with the other he cautiously kicked each new step in
succession. At last, after toiling steadily thus for two hours, he
regained his axe.
The grip with which he seized the handle, and the tender feeling with
which he afterwards laid it on his shoulder, created in him a new idea
as to the strange affection with which man can be brought to regard
inanimate objects, and the fervency with which he condemned his former
flippancy, and vowed never more to go out on the high Alps alone, formed
a striking commentary on the adage, "Experience teaches fools!"
For some time after this Lewis advanced with both speed and caution. At
each point of vantage that he reached he made a rapid and careful survey
of all the ground before him, decided on the exact route which he should
take, as far as the eye could range, and then refused every temptation
to deviate from it save when insurmountable obstacles presented
themselves in the shape of unbridged crevasses or sheer ice-precipices.
Such obstacles were painfully numerous, but by indomitable perseverance,
and sometimes by a desperate venture, he overcame them.
Once he got involved in a succession of crevasses which ran into each
other, so that he found himself at last walking on the edge of a wedge
of ice not a foot broad, with unfathomable abysses on either side. The
wedge terminated at last in a thin edge with a deep crevasse beyond. He
was about to retrace his steps--for the tenth time in that place--when
it struck him that if he could only reach the other side of the crevasse
on his right, he might gain a level patch of ice that appeared to
communicate with the sounder part of the glacier beyond. He paused and
drew his breath. It was not much of a leap. In ordinary circumstances
he could have bounded over it like a chamois, but he was weak now from
hunger and fatigue; besides which, the wedge on which he stood was
rotten, and might yield to his bound, while the opposite edge seemed
insecure and might fail him, like the mass that had proved fatal to Le
Croix.
He felt the venture to be desperate, but the way before him was yet very
long, and the day was declining. Screwing up his courage he sprang
over, and a powerful shudder shook his frame when he alighted safe on
the other side.
Farther down the glacier he came to a level stretch, and began to walk
with greater speed, neglecting for a little the precaution of driving
the end of his axe-handle into the snow in front at each step. The
result was, that he stepped suddenly on the snow that concealed a narrow
crevasse. It sank at once, sending something like a galvanic shock
through his frame. The shock effected what his tired muscles might have
failed to accomplish. It caused him to fling himself backward with
cat-like agility, and thus he escaped narrowly. It is needless to say
that thereafter he proceeded with a degree of care and caution that
might have done credit even to a trained mountaineer.
At last Lewis found it necessary to quit the glacier and scale the
mountains by way of a pass which led into the gorge from which he hoped
to reach the vale of Chamouni. He was in great perplexity here, for,
the aspect of the country being unfamiliar to his eye, he feared that he
must have lost his way. Nothing but decision, however, and prompt
action could serve him now. To have vacillated or retraced part of his
steps, would have involved his spending a second night among the icy
solitudes without shelter; and this he felt, fatigued and fasting as he
was, would have been quite beyond his powers of endurance. He therefore
crossed the bergschrund, or crevasse between the glacier and the cliffs,
on a snow-bridge, faced the mountain-side once more, and, toiling
upwards, reached the summit of the pass a little before sunset.
Fortunately the weather continued fine, and the country below appeared
much less rugged than that over which he had passed, but he had not yet
got clear of difficulties. Just below him lay the longest ice-slope, or
couloir, he had hitherto encountered. The snow had been completely
swept off its surface, and it bore evidence of being the channel down
which rushed the boulders and obelisks of ice that strewed the plain
below. To reach that plain by any other route would have involved a
circuit of unknown extent. The risk was great but the danger of delay
was greater. He swung the heavy axe round his head, and began at once
the tedious process of cutting steps. Being an apt scholar, he had
profited well from the lessons taught by Le Croix and others. Quick,
yet measured and firm, was each stroke. A forced calmness rested on his
face, for, while the ice-blocks above, apparently nodding to their fall,
warned him to make haste, the fear of slipping a foot, or losing
balance, compelled him to be very cautious. In such a case, a rope
round the waist and a friend above would have been of inestimable value.
When about two-thirds of the way down, the exhausted youth was forced to
stop for a few seconds to rest. Just then several pieces of ice, the
size of a man's head, rushed down the couloir and dashed close past him.
They served to show the usual direction of an avalanche. Fearing they
were the prelude to something worse, he quickly cut his way to the side
of the couloir. He was not a moment too soon. Glancing up in alarm, he
saw the foundations of one of the largest ice-masses give way. The top
bent over slowly at first, then fell forward with a crash and broke into
smaller fragments, which dashed like lightning down the slope, leaping
from side to side, and carrying huge rocks and masses of _debris_ to the
plain with horrible din.
Poor Lewis felt his spirit and his body shrink. He had, however, chosen
his position well. Nothing save a cloud of dust and snow reached him,
but the part of the slope down which he had passed was swept clean as
with the besom of destruction. It was an awful ordeal for one so young
and inexperienced, for the risk had to be encountered again. "The
sooner the better," thought he, and immediately swayed aloft his axe
again, lifting, as he did so, his heart to his Maker for the second time
that day. A few minutes more, and he stood at the foot of the couloir.
Without a moment's pause he hurried on, and finally reached the lower
slopes of the mountains. Here, to his inexpressible joy and
thankfulness, he fell in with a sheep-track, and, following it up, was
soon on the high-road of the valley. But it was not till far on in the
night that he reached Chamouni, scarce able to drag himself along.
He went straight to the Bureau of Guides, where a profound sensation was
created by the sad tidings which he brought. Antoine Grennon happened
to be there, and to him Lewis told his sad tale, at the same time
eagerly suggesting that an immediate search should be made for the body,
and offering to go back at once to guide them to the scene of the
accident. Antoine looked earnestly in the youth's face.
"Ah, Monsieur," he said, shaking his head, "you are not fit to guide any
one to-night. Besides, I know the place well. If poor Le Croix has
fallen into that crevasse, he is now past all human aid."
"But why not start at once?" said Lewis, anxiously, "if there is but the
merest vestige of a chance--"
"There is no chance, Monsieur, if your description is correct; besides,
no man could find the spot in a dark night. But rest assured that we
will not fail to do our duty to our comrade. A party will start off
within an hour, proceed as far as is possible during the night, and, at
the first gleam of day, we will push up the mountains. We need no one
to guide us, but you need rest. Go, in the morning you may be able to
follow us."
We need scarcely say that the search was unavailing. The body of the
unfortunate hunter was never recovered. In all probability it still
lies entombed in the ice of the great glacier.