Swinging the pack on his shoulders with an ease born of long practice,
Franz turned to look down the slope he had just climbed. Bearing a
similar pack, Caesar turned with him.
Only the memory of his mother's tears when they exchanged their
farewells kept Franz from shouting with joy. This was far and away the
most fascinating experience of his life.
The route, as explained by Father Paul, had proven absurdly simple.
Franz must go to Bourg and follow the Valley of the River Drance. After
that, he couldn't possibly get lost, for the only path he'd find must
take him over St. Bernard Pass. But the way had proven anything except
routine or monotonous to Franz.
Leaving the hardwoods, the forest with which he was most familiar, he
had entered, and was still in, a belt of evergreens. He laughed happily.
Jean Greb, who by no means lacked imagination, had once told Franz that
to see one tree was to see all trees. But that great spruce only a few
yards down the path, whose wide-spreading branches allowed room for
nothing else, was very like--Franz stifled the thought that the greedy
spruce might be compared to greedy Emil Gottschalk, for it ill-befitted
anyone to think badly of a human being who was already in enough
trouble. But the spindly larch whose summer needles were just beginning
to grow back was remarkably like Grandpa Eissman, with his straggling
hair and stubble of beard. The fat scotch pine, that seemed to hold its
middle and laugh when the wind shook it, might well be fat and jolly
Aunt Maria Reissner. The knobs on the trunk of a young pine reminded
Franz strongly of knobby-kneed young Hertha Bittner.
Franz turned to go on, thinking that Jean Greb was wrong and that all
trees were not alike. They differed as greatly as people. Probably every
person in the world had his or her counterpart in some tree.
A bustling stream snarled across the path, hurried down the slope and,
as though either bent on its own destruction or in a desperate hurry to
keep its rendezvous with the sea, hurled itself over a two-hundred-foot
cliff. Foam churned up in the pool where it fell and the sun, shining
through it, created a miniature but perfect rainbow.
Franz stopped for a long while to watch, for in such things he found
deep pleasure. Then he and Caesar leaped the stream and went on.
It was noticeably colder than it had been at the lower altitudes and
Franz recalled Grandpa Eissman's explanation for Alpine temperatures.
Pointing to a ledge a bit less than three thousand feet up the side of
Little Sister, he had said that, when warm summer reigned in Dornblatt,
autumn held sway there. Since sixty degrees was regarded as summer in
Dornblatt, and thirty-two degrees, the freezing point, might reasonably
be considered autumn, it followed that the temperature dropped
approximately one degree for each three hundred feet of altitude.
But Franz did not feel the cold. This was partly because, sometimes in
steep pitches and sometimes in gentle rises, the path he followed went
steadily upward. Excited anticipation added its own warmth, so that
presently he removed his coat and tied it to the pack.
In the late afternoon, they emerged from the evergreen forest into the
Alpine region. This was where the cattle found rich summer pasturage,
and where thrifty Swiss farmers cut much of their hay. Here were stunted
pines, juniper, dwarf willows and millions of narcissuses and crocuses
in full bloom. High on the side of a rocky crag, Franz spied a sprig of
edelweiss and was tempted to climb up and pluck it. But the day was
wasting fast and the climb up the crag might be more difficult than it
appeared. Spending the night on the face of the crag would mean a cold
camp indeed. It would be wiser to go on to the rest hut.
The sun was still an hour high when he reached it, a rock and log hut a
little ways from the path. Franz opened the door, dropped his pack and
removed Caesar's. Then, with the mastiff padding beside him, he started
into the meadow, carrying the small hatchet that was a parting gift from
his father.
There was wood already in the hut. But it was not only possible but
probable that some wayfarer too exhausted to cut his own wood might
reach the shelter, and to find fuel at hand would surely save a life.
Able-bodied travelers were obligated to gather their own.
But so many wayfarers had come this way, and so many seekers of fuel had
gone out from the hut, that Franz had to travel a long distance before
finding a tree, a small pine whose withered foliage proved that it was
dead, so suitable for firewood.
Bracing his back against a boulder, the boy pushed the tree over with
his foot rather than cut it, for the dried trunk broke easily. He
chopped out the remaining splinters with his hatchet and, dragging the
tree behind him, started back toward the hut.
He was still a considerable distance from it when Caesar, who had been
pacing beside him, pricked up his ears and trotted forward. The dog
looked fixedly in the direction of the structure. Coming near, Franz saw
that he was to have a companion.
The newcomer was a tall, blond young man, wearing the garb of an
Augustinian monk. Since he was in the act of divesting himself of the
pouch wherein he carried food and other necessities of the road,
evidently he had just arrived. He looked up, saw Franz and Caesar, and
his white teeth flashed as he smiled.
"Hello, fellow travelers!" he called cheerfully. "I am Father
Benjamin."
More than a little overawed because he was to share the hut with such
distinguished company, Franz said, "I am Franz Halle and this is my dog,
Caesar. We are pleased to have you with us."
Father Benjamin laughed. "I am sure the pleasure shall be mine.
Hereafter, I may truthfully say that I shared a hut with Caesar. If
you'll wait a moment, Franz, I will bring my portion of the wood."