"Tut, tut," Father Mark reproved. "You must not be gloomy on a day so
fine. The Prior would speak with you."
"At once," Anton said.
He slipped into his skis and departed with Father Mark. Franz stared
wistfully after them. He himself had seen the Prior, in the chapel or
from a distance, but he had never dared even think of speaking with him.
On those few occasions when their paths would have crossed, and they
could not have avoided speaking, Franz had fled as swiftly as possible.
Winter in St. Bernard Pass inspired awe, but it was not nearly as
awe-inspiring as the Prior of St. Bernard Hospice.
Franz picked up and inspected the ski pole Anton was fashioning, and he
tried to fix each detail exactly in his mind. Making proper skis or ski
poles was more than just a craft. It was a very precise art, and one
that Franz hoped to master some day. Good was not enough. In the Alps,
who ventured out on skis took his life in his hands and must have
perfection.
A few minutes later, Anton returned alone. He did not look at Franz when
he said, "The Prior would talk with you."
"With me?" Franz said bewilderedly. "You," Anton said.