CHAPTER VI.

THE POEM OF ONE-EYED ALEXANDER.

There is a matter on my conscience which I can't excuse, but may as well

confess. To deceive a maiden is a very sore thing--so sore that it had

made us all hot against Constantine; but it may be doubted by a cool

mind whether it is worse, nay, whether it is as bad, as to contrive the

murder of a lawful wife. Poets have paid more attention to the

first--maybe they know more about it; the law finds greater employment

on the whole in respect to the latter. For me, I admit that it was not

till I found myself stretched on a mattress in the kitchen, with the

idea of getting a few hours' sleep, that it struck me that Constantine's

wife deserved a share of my concern and care. Her grievance against him

was at least as great as Euphrosyne's; her peril was far greater. For

Euphrosyne was his object, Francesca (for that appeared from Vlacho's

mode of address to be her name) was an obstacle that prevented his

attaining that object.

For myself, I should have welcomed a cutthroat if it came as an

alternative to Constantine's society; but probably his wife would not

agree with me; and the conversation I had heard left me in little doubt

that her life was not safe. They could not have an epidemic, Vlacho had

prudently reminded his master; the island fever could not kill

Constantine's wife and our party all in a day or two. Men suspect such

obliging maladies, and the old lord had died of it, pat to the happy

moment, already. But if the thing could be done, if it could be so

managed that London, Paris, and the Riviera would find nothing strange

in the disappearance of one Madame Stefanopoulos and the appearance of

another, why, to a certainty, done the thing would be, unless I could

warn or save the woman in the cottage. But I did not see how to do

either. So (as I set out to confess) I dropped the subject. And when I

went to sleep I was thinking, not how to save Francesca, but how to

console Euphrosyne, a matter really of less urgency, as I should have

seen had not the echo of that sad little cry still filled my ears.

The news that Hogvardt brought me, when I woke in the morning and was

enjoying a slice of cow steak, by no means cleared my way. An actual

attack did not seem imminent--I fancy these fierce islanders were not

too fond of our revolvers--but the house was, if I may use the term,

carefully picketed; and that both before and behind. Along the road that

approached it in front, there stood sentries at intervals. They were

stationed just out of range of our only effective long-distance weapon,

but it was evident that egress on that side was barred; and the same was

the case on the other. Hogvardt had seen men moving in the wood, and had

heard their challenges to one another, repeated at regular intervals. We

were shut off from the sea; we were shut off from the cottage. A

blockade would reduce us as well as an attack. I had nothing to offer

except the release of Euphrosyne. And to release Euphrosyne would in all

likelihood not save us, while it would leave Constantine free to play

out his ghastly game to its appointed end.

I finished my breakfast in some perplexity of spirit. Then I went and

sat in the hall, expecting that Euphrosyne would appear from her room

before long. I was alone, for the rest were engaged in various

occupations, Hogvardt being particularly busy over a large handful of

hunting-knives that he had gleaned from the walls; I did not understand

what he wanted with them, unless he meant to arm himself in porcupine

fashion.

Presently Euphrosyne came, but it was a transformed Euphrosyne. The

kilt, knee breeches, and gaiters were gone; in their place was the white

linen garment with flowing sleeves and the loose jacket over it, the

national dress of the Greek woman; but Euphrosyne's was ornamented with

a rare profusion of delicate embroidery, and of so fine a texture that

it seemed rather like some delicate, soft, yielding silk. The change of

attire seemed reflected in her altered manner. Defiance was gone and

appeal glistened from her eyes as she stood before me. I sprang up, but

she would not sit. She stood there, and, raising her glance to my face,

asked simply: "Is it true?"

In a business-like way I told her the whole story, starting from the

every-day scene at home in the restaurant, ending with the villainous

conversation and the wild chase of the night before. When I related how

Constantine had called Francesca his wife, Euphrosyne shivered; while I

sketched lightly my encounter with him and Vlacho, she eyed me with a

sort of grave curiosity; and at the end she said: "I'm glad you weren't

killed." It was not an emotional speech, nor delivered with any

_empressement_; but I took it for thanks, and made the best of it.

Then at last she sat down and rested her head on her hand. Her absent

air allowed me to study her closely, and I was struck by a new beauty

which the bizarre boy's dress had concealed. Moreover, with the doffing

of that, she seemed to have put off her extreme hostility; but perhaps

the revelation I had made to her, which showed her the victim of an

unscrupulous schemer, had more to do with her softened air. Yet she bore

the story firmly, and a quivering lip was her extreme sign of grief or

anger. And her first question was not of herself.

"Do you mean that they will kill this woman?" she asked.

"I'm afraid it's not unlikely that something will happen to her, unless,

of course--" I paused, but her quick wit supplied the omission.

"Unless," she said, "he lets her live now, because I am out of his

hands."

"Will you stay out of his hands?" I asked. "I mean, as long as I can

keep you out of them."

She looked round with a troubled expression.

"How can I stay here?" she said in a low tone.

"You will be as safe here as you were in your mother's arms," I

answered.

She acknowledged my promise with a movement of her head; but a moment

later she cried:

"But I am not with you--I am with the people! The island is theirs and

mine. It is not yours. I will have no part in giving it to you."

"I wasn't proposing to take pay for my hospitality," said I. "It'll be

hardly handsome enough for that, I'm afraid. But mightn't we leave that

question for the moment?" And I described briefly to her our present

position.

"So that," I concluded, "while I maintain my claim to the island, I am

at present more interested in keeping a whole skin on myself and my

friends."

"If you will not give it up, I can do nothing," said she. "Though they

knew Constantine to be all you say, yet they would follow him and not me

if I yielded the island. Indeed, they would most likely follow him in

any case. For the Neopalians like a man to follow, and they like that

man to be a Stefanopoulos; so they would shut their eyes to much, in

order that Constantine might marry me and become lord."

She stated all this in a matter-of-fact way, disclosing no great horror

of her countrymen's moral standard. The straightforward barbarousness of

it perhaps appealed to her a little; she loathed the man who would rule

on those terms, but had some toleration for the people who set the true

dynasty above all else. And she spoke of her proposed marriage as though

it were a natural arrangement.

"I shall have to marry him, I expect, in spite of everything," she said.

I pushed my chair back violently. My English respectability was

appalled.

"Marry him?" I cried. "Why, he murdered the old lord!"

"That has happened before among the Stefanopouloi," said Euphrosyne,

with a calmness dangerously near to pride.

"And he proposes to murder his wife," I added.

"Perhaps he will get rid of her without that." She paused; then came the

anger I had looked for before. "Ah, but how dared he swear that he had

thought of no one but me and loved me passionately? He shall pay for

that." Again it was injured pride that rang in her voice, as in her

first cry. It did not sound like love, and for that I was glad. The

courtship had probably been an affair of state rather than affection. I

did not ask how Constantine was to be made to pay, whether before or

after marriage. I was struggling between horror and amusement at my

guest's point of view. But I take leave to have a will of my own, even

sometimes in matters that are not exactly my concern, and I said now,

with a composure that rivalled Euphrosyne's: "It is out of the question

that you should marry him. I'm going to get him hanged, and, anyhow, it

would be atrocious."

She smiled at that, but then she leant forward and asked:

"How long have you provisions for?"

"That's a good retort," I admitted. "A few days; that's all. And we

can't get out to procure any more; and we can't go shooting, because the

wood's infested with these ruff--I beg pardon--with your countrymen."

"Then it seems to me," said Euphrosyne, "that you and your friends are

more likely to be hanged."

Well, on a dispassionate consideration, it did seem more likely; but she

need not have said so. And she went on with an equally discouraging good

sense:

"There will be a boat from Rhodes in about a month or six weeks. The

officer will come then to take the tribute; perhaps the governor will

come. But till then nobody will visit the island, unless it be a few

fishermen from Cyprus."

"Fishermen? Where do they land? At the harbor?"

"No. My people do not like them, though the governor threatens to send

troops if we do not let them land. So they come to a little creek at the

opposite end of the island, on the other side of the mountain. Ah, what

are you thinking of?"

As Euphrosyne perceived, her words had put a new idea in my mind. If I

could reach that creek and find the fishermen and persuade them to help

me, or to carry me and my party off, that hanging might happen to the

right man, after all.

"You're thinking you can reach them?" she cried.

"You don't seem sure that you want me to," I observed.

"Oh, how can I tell what I want? If I help you, I am betraying the

island. If I do not--"

"You'll have a death or two at your door, and you'll marry the biggest

scoundrel in Europe," said I.

She hung her head, and plucked fretfully at the embroidery on the neck

of her dress.

"But, anyhow, you couldn't reach them," she said. "You are close

prisoners here."

That, again, seemed true, so true that it put me in a very bad temper.

Therefore I rose, and, leaving her without much ceremony, strolled into

the kitchen. Here I found Watkins dressing the cow's head, Hogvardt

surrounded by knives, and Denny lying on a rug on the floor with a small

book, which he seemed to be reading. He looked up with a smile that he.

considered knowing.

"Well, what does the captive queen say?" he asked with levity.

"She proposes to marry Constantine," I answered, and added quickly to

Hogvardt: "What's the game with those knives, Hog?"

"Well, my lord," said Hogvardt, surveying his dozen murderous

instruments, "I thought there was no harm in putting an edge on them, in

case we should find a use for them;" and he fell to grinding one with

great energy.

"I say, Charlie, I wonder what this yarn's about? I can't construe half

of it. It's in Greek, and it's something about Neopalia, and there's a

lot about a Stefanopoulos."

"Is there? Let's see;" and taking the book I sat down to look at it. It

was a slim old book, bound in calfskin. The Greek was written in an

antique style; it was verse. I turned to the title-page. "Hullo, this is

rather interesting," I exclaimed. "It's about the death of old

Stefanopoulos--the man they sing that song about, you know."

In fact, I had got hold of the poem which One-eyed Alexander composed.

Its length was about three hundred lines, exclusive of the refrain which

the islanders had chanted, and which was inserted six times, occurring

at the end of each fifty lines. The rest was written in rather barbarous

iambics; and the sentiments were quite as barbarous as the verse. It

told the whole story, and I ran rapidly over it, translating here and

there for the benefit of my companions. The arrival of the Baron

d'Ezonville recalled our own with curious exactness, except that he came

with one servant only. He had been taken to the inn, as I had, but he

had never escaped from there, and had been turned adrift the morning

after his arrival. I took more interest in Stefan, and followed eagerly

the story of how the islanders had come to his house, and demanded that

he should revoke the sale. Stefan, however, was obstinate; it lost the

lives of four of his assailants before his house was forced. Thus far I

read, and expected to find next an account of a _mêlée_ in the

hall. But here the story took a turn unexpected by me, one that might

make the reading of the old poem more than a mere pastime.

"But when they had broken in," said One-eyed Alexander, "behold, the

hall was empty and the house empty! And they stood amazed. But the two

cousins of the lord, who had been the hottest in seeking his death, put

all the rest to the door, and were themselves alone in the house; for

the secret was known to them who were of the blood of the Stefanopouloi.

Unto me, the bard, it is not known. Yet men say they went beneath the

earth, and there in the earth found the lord. And certain it is they

slew him, for in a space they came forth to the door bearing his head,

and they showed it to the people, who answered with a great shout. But

the cousins went back, barring the door again; and again, when but a few

minutes had passed, they came forth, and opened the door, and the elder

of them, being now by the traitor's death become lord, bade the people

in and made a great feast for them. But the head of Stefan none saw

again, nor did any see his body; but the body and head were gone,

whither none know saving the noble blood of the Stefanopouloi; for

utterly they disappeared, and the secret was securely kept."

I read this passage aloud, translating as I went. At the end Denny drew

a breath.

"Well, if there aren't ghosts in this house, there ought to be," he

remarked. "What the deuce did those rascals do with the old gentleman,

Charlie?"

"It says 'they went beneath the earth.'"

"The cellar," suggested Hogvardt, who had a prosaic mind.

"But they wouldn't leave the body in the cellar," I objected; "and if,

as this fellow says, they were only away a few minutes, they couldn't

have dug a grave for it. And then it says that they 'there in the earth

found the lord'!"

"It would have been more interesting," said Denny, "if they'd told

Alexander a bit more about it. However, I suppose he consoles himself

with his chant again?"

"He does. It follows immediately on what I've read, and so the thing

ends." And I sat looking at the little yellow volume. "Where did you

find it, Denny?" I said.

"Oh, on a shelf in the corner of the hall, between the Bible and a Life

of Byron."

I got up and walked back to the hall. I looked round. Euphrosyne was not

there. I inspected the hall door; it was still locked on the inside. I

mounted the stairs, and called at the door of her room; when no answer

came I pushed it open and took the liberty of glancing round; she was

not there. I called again, for I thought she might have passed along the

way over the hall and reached the roof, as she had done before. This

time I called loudly. Silence followed for a moment. Then came an

answer, in a hurried, rather apologetic tone, "Here I am." But then the

answer came, not from the direction that I had expected, but from the

hall. And looking over the balustrade, I saw Euphrosyne sitting in the

armchair.

"This," said I, going down-stairs, "taken in conjunction with this," and

I patted One-eyed Alexander's book, which I held in my hand, "is

certainly curious and suggestive." "Here I am," said Euphrosyne, with an

air that added, "I've not moved. What are you shouting for?"

"Yes, but you weren't there a minute ago," I observed, reaching the hall

and walking across to her.

She looked disturbed and embarrassed.

"Where have you been?" I asked.

"Must I give an account of every movement?" said she, trying to cover

her confusion with a show of haughty offence.

The coincidence was really a remarkable one; it was as hard to account

for Euphrosyne's disappearance and reappearance as for the vanished head

and body of old Stefan. I had a conviction, based on a sudden intuition,

that one explanation must lie at the root of both these curious things,

that the secret of which Alexander spoke was a secret still hidden,

hidden from my eyes but known to the girl before me, the daughter of the

Stefanopouloi.

"I won't ask you where you've been, if you don't wish to tell me," said

I, carelessly.

She bowed her head in recognition of my indulgence.

"But there is one question I should like to ask you," I pursued, "if

you'll be so kind as to answer it."

"Well, what is it?"

"Where was Stefan Stefanopoulos killed, and what became of his body?"

As I put my question I flung One-eyed Alexander's book open on the table

beside her.

She started visibly, crying, "Where did you get that?"

I told her how Denny had found it, and I added:

"Now, what does 'beneath the earth' mean? You are one of the house, and

you must know."

"Yes, I know, but I must not tell you. We are all bound by the most

sacred oath to tell no one."

"Who told you?"

"My uncle. The boys of our house are told when they are fifteen, the

girls when they are sixteen. No one else knows."

"And why is that?"

She hesitated, fearing perhaps that her answer would itself tend to

betray the secret.

"I dare tell you nothing," she said. "The oath binds me; and it binds

every one of my kindred to kill me if I break it."

"But you've no kindred left except Constantine," I objected.

"He is enough. He would kill me."

"Sooner than marry you?" I suggested, rather maliciously.

"Yes, if I broke the oath."

"Hang the oath!" said I, impatiently. "The thing might help us. Did they

bury Stefan somewhere under the house?"

"No, he was not buried," she answered.

"Then they brought him up, and got rid of his body when the islanders

had gone?"

"You must think what you will."

"I'll find it out," said I. "If I pull the house down, I'll find it. Is

it a secret door or--"

She had colored at the question. I put the latter part in a low, eager

voice, for hope had come to me.

"Is it a way out?" I asked, leaning over to her.

She sat mute, but irresolute, embarrassed and fretful.

"Heavens!" I cried, impatiently, "it may mean life or death to all of

us, and you boggle over your oath!"

My rude impatience met with a rebuke that it perhaps deserved. With a

glance of the utmost scorn, Euphrosyne asked, coldly:

"And what are the lives of all of you to me?"

"True, I forgot," said I with a bitter politeness. "I beg your pardon. I

did you all the service I could last night, and now I and my friends may

as well die as live! But I'll pull this place to ruin but I'll find your

secret."

I was walking up and down now in a state of some excitement. My brain

was fired with the thought of stealing a march on Constantine through

the discovery of his own family secret.

Suddenly Euphrosyne gave a little soft clap with her hands. It was over

in a minute, and she sat blushing, confused, trying to look as if she

had not done it at all.

"What did you do that for?" I asked, stopping in front of her.

"Nothing," said Euphrosyne.

"Oh, I don't believe that," said I.

She looked at me. "I didn't mean to do it," she said again. "But can't

you guess why?"

"There's too much guessing to be done here," said I, impatiently; and I

started walking again. But presently I heard a voice say softly, and in

a tone that seemed to address nobody in particular--me least of all:

"We Neopalians like a man who can be angry, and I began to think you

never would."

"I am not the least angry," said I, with great indignation. I hate being

told that I am angry when I am merely showing firmness.

Now, at this protest of mine Euphrosyne saw fit to laugh--the most

hearty laugh she had given since I had known her. The mirthfulness of it

undermined my wrath. I stood still opposite her, biting the end of my

mustache.

"You may laugh," said I, "but I'm not angry; and I shall pull this house

down--or dig it up--in cold blood, in perfectly cold blood."

"You are angry," said Euphrosyne, "and you say you're not. You are like

my father. He would stamp his foot furiously like that and say, 'I am

not angry, I am not angry, Phroso.'"

Phroso! I had forgotten that diminutive of my guest's classical name. It

rather pleased me, and I repeated it gently after her, "Phroso, Phroso,"

and I'm afraid I eyed the little foot that had stamped so bravely.

"He always called me Phroso. Oh, I wish he were alive! Then

Constantine--"

"Since he isn't," said I, sitting by Phroso (I must write it, it's a

deal shorter)--by Phroso's elbow--"since he isn't, I'll look after

Constantine. It would be a pity to spoil the house, wouldn't it?"

"I've sworn," said Phroso.

"Circumstances alter oaths," said I, bending till I was very near

Phroso's ear.

"Ah," said Phroso, reproachfully, "that's what lovers say when they find

another more beautiful than their old love."

I shot away from Phroso's ear with a sudden backward start. Her remark,

somehow, came home to me with a very remarkable force. I got off the

table, and stood opposite to her, in an awkward and stiff attitude.

"I am compelled to ask you for the last time if you will tell me the

secret," said I, in the coldest of tones.

She looked up with surprise. My altered manner may well have amazed her.

She did not know the reason of it.

"You asked me kindly and--and pleasantly, and I would not. Now you ask

me as if you threatened," she said. "Is it likely I should tell you

now?"

Well, I was angry with myself, and with her because she had made me

angry with myself; and, the next minute, I became furiously angry with

Denny, whom I found standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen,

with a grin of intense amusement on his face.

"What are you grinning at?" I demanded fiercely.

"Oh, nothing," said Denny, and his face strove to assume a prudent

gravity.

"Bring a pickaxe," said I.

Denny's face wandered toward Phroso. "Is she as annoying as that?" he

seemed to ask. "A pickaxe?" he repeated in surprised tones.

"Yes, two pickaxes! I'm going to have this floor up, and see if I can

find out the great Stefanopoulos secret." I spoke with an accent of

intense scorn.

Again Phroso laughed; her hands beat very softly against one another.

Heavens, what did she do that for when Denny was there, watching

everything with those shrewd eyes of his?

"The pickaxes!" I roared.

Denny turned and fled; a moment elapsed; I did not know what to do, how

to look at Phroso, or how not to look at her. I took refuge in flight. I

rushed into the kitchen on pretence of aiding or hastening Denny's

search. I found him taking up an old pick that stood near the door

leading to the compound. I seized it from his hand.

"Confound you!" I cried, for Denny laughed openly at me; and I rushed

back to the hall! But on the threshold I paused--and said what I will

not write.

For, though there came from somewhere just the last ripple of a mirthful

laugh, the hall was empty! Phroso was gone! I flung the pickaxe down

with a clatter on the boards, and exclaimed in my haste:

"I wish to heaven I'd never bought the island!"

But I did not mean that really.

(_To be continued._)

CLIMBING MONT BLANC IN A BLIZZARD.

CAUGHT IN A BLINDING SNOW STORM ON A NARROW CLIFF, TWO AND A HALF

MILES ABOVE SEA LEVEL.

BY GARRETT P. SERVISS,

Author of "Astronomy with an Opera Glass," "Climbing the Matterhorn,"[15]

etc.

[Footnote 15: See MCCLURE'S MAGAZINE for September, 1895.]

Standing on the spindling tower of the Matterhorn early one August

morning in 1894 I saw, for the first time, the white crown of Europe,

Mont Blanc, with its snows sparkling high above the roof of clouds that

covered the dozing summer in the valleys of Piedmont. Just one year

later I started from Chamonix to climb to that cool world in the blue.

My guide was Ambroise Couttet, whose family name is famous in the

mountaineering annals of Savoy. An earlier Ambroise Couttet lies in the

icy bosom of Mont Blanc, fallen, years ago, down a crevasse so profound

that his would-be rescuers were drawn, baffled, awe-struck, and with

shaking nerves, from its horrible depths, whose bottom they could not

find. Even before that time Pierre Couttet had been whirled to death on

the great peak, and his body, embedded and preserved in a glacier, was

found nearly half a century afterward at its foot. And two other

Couttets of past years escaped, by the merest hair of miraculous

fortune, from a catastrophe on the same dreadful slopes in which three

of their comrades were swallowed up. Yet the Ambroise Couttet of to-day

is never so happy as when he is on the mountain. His eyes sparkle if he

hears the thunder of an avalanche, and he smiles as he watches its

tossing white crest ploughing swiftly across some snowy incline which he

has just traversed.

One porter sufficed, for my only traps consisted of a hand camera, a

field-glass, and a few extra woollen shirts and stockings. Having had no

serious exercise since climbing the Matterhorn a year before, I deemed

it prudent to spare my strength for the more important work above by

taking a mule to the Pierre Pointue. It was a fine morning, offering a

promise of favorable weather after several days of mist and rain.

Monsieur Janssen, the French astronomer, who was waiting at Chamonix for

his porters to complete their long and wearisome labor of transporting

piecemeal his telescope and other instruments of observation to the

summit, before making the ascent himself, said, grasping my arm at

parting:

"I wish you good luck; good weather you are sure of."

[Illustration: COL DE BLANC, MONT BLANC.

From a photograph loaned by Mr. Frank Hegger, New York.]

It was high authority, for Monsieur Janssen has studied the weather all

his life, and knows the atmosphere of mountain peaks and of the airy

levels where balloons float; yet if he could have foreseen what was to

occur on Mont Blanc within twenty hours, he would have wished me the

good fortune of being somewhere else.

It was past the middle of the forenoon of the 10th of August when, with

Couttet and the porter, I left Chamonix. Dismissing my tired mule at the

Pierre Pointue, which hangs with its flag nearly seven thousand feet

above sea level, and high over the séracs of the Glacier des Bossons, we

began the ascent by way of the Pierre a l'Echelle and over the

missile-scarred foot of the Aiguille du Midi. The upper part of this

mountain as seen from Chamonix looks quite sharp-pointed enough to

deserve its name of the "Needle of the South." The side toward the

Glacier des Bossons is exceedingly steep, and when the snows are melting

the peak becomes a perfect catapult, volleys of ice and stones being

discharged from its lofty precipices. The falling rocks, dropping, as

some of them do, from ledge to ledge half a mile, acquire the velocity

of cannon shots. Nobody ever lingers on this part of the route, and we

had no desire to pause, although the Aiguille sends comparatively few

stones down so late in the summer.

The sun beat furiously while we were scrambling on the rocks, and the

latter were warm to the touch, although, thousands of feet below, the

immense cleft in the mountain side was choked with masses of

never-melted ice.

"Never mind," said Couttet, as I stopped to wipe the perspiration from

my face, "it will be cool enough when we get onto the glacier."

And it was--so cool in fact that I hastily pulled on my coat. Having

passed out of range of the Aiguille du Midi, we found comfortable going

on the ice.

[Illustration: THE MAUVAIS PAS, MONT BLANC.]

DIFFICULTIES AND DANGERS OF THE ROUTE.

The northern slope of Mont Blanc is hollowed into a vast cavernous

channel, half filled with glaciers, and edged on the east by the Mont

Maudit, the Aiguille de Saussure, and the Aiguille du Midi, and on the

west by the Dome and Aiguille du Gouter and the Gros Bechat. Down this

tremendous gutter crowd the eternal snows of Mont Blanc, compressed

toward the bottom into the Glacier des Bossons and the Glacier de

Taconnaz. These immense ice streams are separated by the projecting nose

of the Montagne de la Cote, which rises from the valley of Chamonix and

lies in a long, dark ridge on the foot of Mont Blanc. Above the Montagne

de la Cote several gigantic rock masses, shooting into pinnacles, push

up through the ice from the bottom and near the centre of the channel.

These are called the Grands Mulets, from the resemblance which they

present, when seen from Chamonix, to a row of huge black mules tramping

up the white mountain side.

[Illustration: THE GLACIER DES BOSSONS, MONT BLANC.]

I mention these features because the best route to the summit of Mont

Blanc lies over the glaciers and snow fields and between the walls of

the great trough I have described, and the first station is at the

Grands Mulets, where a cabin for the accommodation of climbers has

existed for many years. From the foot of the Aiguille du Midi, at the

Pierre a l'Echelle, across the Glacier des Bossons to the rocks of the

Grands Mulets the distance is about a mile and a quarter, and the

perpendicular increase of elevation nearly two thousand feet. The

passage seldom presents any difficulty, except to inexperienced persons,

although at times many crevasses must be crossed, particularly at what

is called the Junction, just above the point where the Glacier des

Bossons and the Glacier de Taconnaz are divided by the Montagne de la

Cote. Here some underlying irregularity of the rocks, deep beneath the

surface of the mighty river of ice, causes the formation of a labyrinth

of fissures and crevasses, overhung with towering séracs, or ice

turrets; and the ice descends between the Grands Mulets and the rock

wall in front of the Gros Bechat in a sort of motionless

cascade--motionless, that is to say, except when cracks break apart into

yawning chasms, and massive blocks tumble into the depths.

Even a practised climber is occasionally compelled to look to his steps

in passing the Junction. On my return I witnessed an accident in this

place which proved at the same time the reality of the danger and the

usefulness in sudden crises of the mountaineer's rope. A tourist

descending from the Grands Mulets was passing, under an impending sérac,

around the head of a crevasse, where the only footway was a few inches

of ice hewn with the axe. Being heedless or nervous, his feet shot from

under him, and with a yell he plunged into the pit. Luckily, he was tied

to the rope between two guides, one of whom had passed the dangerous

corner, while the other, behind, had also a safe footing. As he fell the

guides braced themselves, the rope zipped, and the unfortunate

adventurer hung clutching and kicking at the polished blue wall. He had

really descended but a few feet into the crevasse, though to him

doubtless it seemed a hundred, and with a surprising display of

strength, or skill, the guides hauled him out by simply tightening the

rope. One of them pulled back and the other forward, and between them

the sprawling victim rose with the strain to the brink of the chasm,

where a third man dexterously caught and landed him.

[Illustration: REFUGE STATION AT THE GRANDS MULETS, MONT BLANC.]

Madame Marke and Olivier Gay were not so fortunate near this spot in

1870. A bridge of snow spanning a crevasse gave way beneath them, and,

the rope breaking, they disappeared and perished in the abyss.

We reached the Grands Mulets in the middle of the afternoon. Here the

great majority of amateur climbers are content to terminate their ascent

of Mont Blanc. The experience of getting as far as this point and back

again is, as the incidents just related show, anything but

insignificant, and may prove not only exciting but even tragic. Yet, of

course, the real work, the tug of war between human endurance and the

obstacles of untamed nature, is above. The Grands Mulets formed the

stopping place in some of the earliest attempts to climb Mont Blanc,

more than a hundred years ago. Here Jacques Balmat, the hero of the

first ascent, passed an awful night alone, amid the cracking of glaciers

and the shaking of avalanches, before his final victory over the peak in

1786. In the spirit which led the Romans to surname the conqueror of

Hannibal "Scipio Africanus," the exultant Chamonniards called their hero

"Balmat de Mont Blanc." He, too, finally perished by a fall from a

precipice in 1834, and to-day there are those who whisper that his

spirit can be seen flitting over the snowy wastes before every new

catastrophe.

The cabin at the Grands Mulets is furnished with rough bunks and cooking

apparatus, and during the summer a woman, Adéle Balmat, assisted by the

guides, acts as hostess for this high-perched "inn," ten thousand feet

above sea level.

It is customary to leave the Grands Mulets for the ascent to the summit

soon after midnight, in order to get over the immense snow slopes before

the action of the sun has loosened the avalanches and weakened the

crevasse bridges. But we did not start until half-past three in the

morning. The waning moon, hanging over the Dome du Gouter, gave

sufficient light to render a lantern unnecessary, and dawn was near at

hand. Threatening bands of clouds attracted anxious glances from

Couttet, and it was evident that a change of weather impended. But we

clambered over the rocks to the crevassed slopes below the Gouter, and

pushed upward.

We were now approaching the higher and narrower portion of the immense

cleft or channel in the mountain that I have described. On our right

towered the Dome du Gouter, and on the left the walls of the Mont Maudit

and its outlying pinnacles. Snowy ridges and peaks shone afar in the

moonlight on all sides. It was a wilderness of white.

[Illustration: ADÉLE BALMAT, HOSTESS AT THE GRANDS MULETS STATION.]

At the height of twelve thousand feet we came upon the Petit Plateau, a

comparatively horizontal lap of snow which is frequently swept clear

across with avalanches of ice descending from the enormous séracs that

hang like cornices upon the precipices above. The frosty splinters of a

recent downfall sparkled and crunched under our feet. It is one of the

most dangerous places on the mountain. "Men have lost their lives here

and will again lose them," is the remark of Mr. Conway, the Himalayan

climber, in describing his passage of the place. "Many times I have

crossed it," said Monsieur Vallot, the mountain meteorologist, last

summer, "but never without a sinking of the heart, and the moment we are

over the Petit Plateau I always hear my guides, trained and fearless

men, mutter, 'Once more we are out of it.'"

Knowing these things, it is needless to say that I found the Petit

Plateau keenly interesting. The menacing séracs leaned from the cliffs,

glittering icily, and threw black shadows upon the _névé_ beneath,

but suffered us to pass unmolested.

Above the Petit Plateau is a steep ascent called the Grands Montées

which taxes the breath. Having surmounted this, we were on the Grand

Plateau, a much wider level than the other, edged with tremendous ice

cliffs and crevasses, and situated at an elevation of thirteen thousand

feet. For some time now it had been broad day, but the clouds had

thickened rapidly, and the summit was wrapped and completely hidden in

them. Blasts of frigid wind began to whistle about us, driving stinging

pellets of ice into our faces. We quickened our steps, for it would not

do to be caught in a storm here. The Grand Plateau has taken more lives

than its ill-starred neighbor below.

A BLINDING STORM OF SNOW AND WIND.

We now bore off to the right, in order to clamber up the side of the

great channel, or depression, that we had thus far followed, because at

its upper end, where it meets the base of the crowning pyramid of Mont

Blanc, it abuts against ice-covered precipices that no mortal will ever

scale. Snow commenced to fall, and the wind rose. As we neared the crest

of the ridge connecting the Dome du Gouter with the Bosses du Dromadaire

and the summit, the tempest burst fiercely upon us. In an instant we

were enveloped by a cloud of whirling snow that blotted out sky and

mountains alike. It drove into my eyes, and half blinded me. It was so

thick that objects a few yards away would have been concealed even

without a violent wind to confuse the vision. At times Couttet, close

ahead of me, was visible only in a kind of gray outline, like a wraith.

On an open plain such a storm in such a temperature would have had its

dangers for a traveller seeking his way. We were seeking our way, not on

an open plain, but two miles and a half above sea level, in a desert of

snow and ice, encompassed with precipices, chasms, and pitfalls,

treading on we knew not what, assailed by a wild storm, all landmarks

obliterated, and our footsteps filling so fast with drifted snow that in

two minutes we could not see from what direction we had last come.

In such a situation the imagination becomes dramatic. The night before I

had been reading the account of the loss, in 1870, of Dr. Bean, Mr.

Randall, and the Rev. Mr. Corkendale, together with five guides and

three porters, eleven persons in all, in just such a storm and within

sight of this spot. And now as we stumbled along I repeated to myself,

almost word for word, Dr. Bean's message to his wife, found when his

body was discovered:

"September 7, evening--My dear Hessie: We have been two days on Mont

Blanc in the midst of a terrible hurricane of snow; we have lost our

way, and are in a hole scooped in the snow at an altitude of fifteen

thousand feet. I have no longer any hope of descending. Perhaps this

notebook will be found and sent to you. We have nothing to eat, my feet

are already frozen, and I am exhausted. I have strength to write only a

few words more. I have left means for C.'s education; I know you will

employ them wisely. I die with faith in God and with loving thoughts of

you. Farewell to all. We shall meet again in heaven--I think of you

always."

The bodies of five of these victims were found but a few feet aside from

the proper route which in clear weather would have led to safety; the

other six had disappeared.

While such cheerful recollections were running through my mind I noticed

that we were no longer ascending, and that Couttet, whom I had not

troubled with questions as long as he showed no hesitation, was bearing

now this way and now that, and occasionally stopping and peering about

with spread nostrils, like a dog seeking a trail. Clearly we were on the

top of the highest elevation in our neighborhood, for the wind now came

point blank in our faces out of the white abyss of the atmosphere, and

almost blew me off my feet.

"Have you lost the way?" I asked.

"I'll find it," Couttet replied.

"Where are we?"

"Near the Bosses."

"Isn't there a refuge hut on the Bosses?"

"Yes."

"Can we reach it?"

Couttet did not immediately reply, but looked up and about, as if trying

to pierce the driving snow with his gaze. "If I could catch sight of the

rocks," at length he said.

Suddenly the gale seemed to split the clouds, and for an instant a

vision opened of blue sky over our heads, and endless slopes of snow,

falling one below another, under our feet. I saw that we were standing

on the rounded back of a snowy ridge. Just in front the white surface

dipped and disappeared in a vast gulf of air, where flying clouds were

torn against the black jagged points of lower mountains. Above our

level, to the left, rocks appeared projecting through the covering of

snow. I knew that these must belong to the Bosses du Dromadaire, and

that the hut we sought was perched on one of them.

All this the eye caught in a twinkling, for the storm curtain was lifted

only to be as quickly dropped again, shutting out both the upper and the

lower world, and leaving us isolated on the slippery roof ridge of

Europe. At the same time the wind increased its violence, and the cold

became more penetrating. I pulled my fingers out of the digits of my

woollen gloves, and gripped my iron-shod baton between thumb and

knuckles. We now had our bearings, thanks to the momentary glance, and

it behooved us not to lose them, for the storm was every instant growing

worse. At times it was not the simplest thing in the world to keep one's

feet in the face of the blasts. I was too fresh from reading the history

of Mont Blanc not to remember that a few years ago Count Villanova and

two guides were blown from another nearby ridge into the very abyss

whose jaws had just opened before us, where their bodies lie

undiscovered to this day.

Moving cautiously, we began to descend, in order to cross the neck which

stretches between the Dome du Gouter and the Bosses. When we wandered a

little to the right the surface commenced to pitch off, and we knew what

that meant--beware! Once when we had veered too far to the left,

staggering down hill under the blows of the storm, and able to see but a

few feet away, we stopped as if a shot had arrested us. Another step or

two would have carried us over a precipice of ice, whose blue wall fell

perpendicularly from the brittle edge at our feet into cloud-choked

depths. We had gone down our roof to the eaves. Not a word was spoken,

but with instant unanimity we turned and scrambled up again, Couttet in

the lead, and the porter breathing hard at my heels. Such a scene in the

fraction of a second is photographed on the memory for a lifetime.

In a little while we began to ascend another slope, to which we had felt

our way, and this was surely the swelling hump of the first of the

Bosses, and the rocks must be near at hand. Another opportune gap in the

clouds, which left us for an instant surrounded with retreating walls of

vapor, confirmed that opinion, and vindicated the mountaineering skill

of Couttet, who had found the way though way there was none. A quick,

breathless scramble up a confused heap of ice and slippery points of

rock brought us at last to the refuge.

[Illustration: PASSAGE OF A CREVASSE, MONT BLANC.]

A NIGHT OF SCANT SHELTER AND NO FOOD.

Couttet shook and banged the door, making a noise that did not penetrate

far through the whistling air, and, with cold fingers, began fumbling at

the latch, when, to my surprise, the door opened and a muffled voice

bade us enter. An Englishman who had started with his guides at midnight

from the Grands Mulets, and three or four of Monsieur Janssen's porters,

had already sought refuge in the hut. Icicles hung about my face, and my

clothes were as stiff as chain armor. There was no fire in the little

hut and no means of making any. My watch, when I was able to get it out

of my pocket, showed the time to be a quarter to nine A.M.

Pulling off our shoes and putting on dry stockings as quickly as

possible, we imitated the example of the man who had let us in, and who

no sooner closed the door than he tumbled back into his bunk and buried

himself in the rough woollen blankets which the Alpine Club has provided

for the use of those who may need them.

In about an hour the storm lightened, and the Englishman and the porters

started back to the Grands Mulets. I consulted Couttet about making a

dash for the summit; but he thought it would be better to wait awhile,

and better still to follow the others down the mountain. To this last

proposition I decidedly objected, although Couttet was right, as it

turned out; for in another hour the storm, which had not entirely ceased

at any time, whipped itself into renewed fury, and before noon the wind

was howling and shrieking with demoniac energy, and flinging gritty snow

and ice in blinding clouds against the hut, which, situated on a ridge,

was completely exposed. Fortunately it is strongly built and solidly

anchored. While I entertained no reasonable doubt of its security, yet

when a blast of extraordinary fierceness made it tremble, as if it were

holding itself with desperate grip upon the rocks, I could not help

picturing it, in imagination, taking flight at last, and sailing high

over the mountains in the wild embrace of the tempest.

Time moved with a dreadfully slow pace. The only way to keep warm was to

remain in the bunk under a pile of blankets. Once, in my impatience, I

got out and painfully hauled on my shoes, which were as cold as ice, and

as hard almost; but my feet were blistered through lack of previous

exercise, and after hobbling and shivering for a few minutes on the

narrow floor, which was partly covered with a constantly accumulating

deposit of snow, as fine and dry as flour and as frigid as though it had

come straight from the Arctic Circle, I hurried back under the blankets.

The invading snow penetrated through cracks that one could hardly see,

around the door and the little square window.

At last noon came, and we ate our remaining morsels of dry bread, which

finished our provisions. We had brought along only enough to provide a

lunch on the way to the summit, intending to be back at the Grands

Mulets not later than midday. Then the long afternoon dragged its weary

hours, while the storm got higher, shriller, and colder, and the sense

of our isolation became keener. Finally daylight began to fade. Slowly

the light grew dim in the window at my feet, until it was a mere

glimmer. Since we had to stay, we thanked the storm for hastening the

fall of night. When the gloom became so dense that even the window had

disappeared, Couttet lit a tallow dip, but it would not remain upright

in its improvised holder, and the freezing draughts that stole through

the hut kept it flickering so that he finally put it out, and we

remained in the dark, not "seein' things," like Eugene Field's youthful

hero, but hearing things no less uncanny. The wind whistled, moaned,

screeched, growled, and occasionally shouted with such startling

imitation of human voices that I once asked Couttet if some one were not

calling for help. But investigation showed that we were alone on our

tempestuous perch, and that the cry of agony had been uttered by the

hurricane, or the wind-lashed rocks.

[Illustration: PASSAGE OF A CREVASSE. MONT BLANC.]

Supperless, we wrapped our blankets closer, got ears and noses under,

and tried to sleep. I had a few naps, but the roar outside, and the

shaking of the hut as the storm smote it again and again, rendered

continuous sleep impossible. Something had been loosened on the roof

close overhead, and it rattled and banged as if the destruction of the

hut had actually begun. It was a queer sound, angry, imperious,

menacing, and it produced a quaking sensation. Sometimes it would die

down, and, with a final rap or two, entirely cease. Then it would

resume, with perhaps five strokes to the second, increasing to ten, then

to twenty, and quickly rising to an ear-splitting r-r-r-h, terminated

with a bang! bang!! bang!!! that made the heart leap, while the hut

seemed to rock on its foundations.

Getting out of the bunk, I found by the sense of touch that the powdery

snow-drifts were becoming steadily deeper on the floor. This recalled

another incident which had greatly interested me during my preliminary

reading at Chamonix. The winter before, Monsieur Janssen's men had

stored some of the heavier materials for his observatory near these

rocks. At the opening of summer they could not be found, and no one knew

what had become of them. Finally, as the snows melted and fell from the

peak in slides and avalanches, the missing articles were uncovered,

having been buried in a white grave forty feet deep.

And so the wild night passed, until with tedious deliberation the little

window made a hole in the darkness, and I knew that morning was at hand.

The howling without was as loud as ever, and the fine snow was packed

high upon the window, shutting out a good share of the light. The floor

was covered with white drifts, and my shoes had swallowed snow; but

being hard and dry, it was easily shaken out. There was no fire to be

built and no breakfast to be prepared. But it was impossible to lie

still, even for the sake of keeping warm, and pulling on our shoes we

stamped about the floor, and occasionally opened the door to see what

the storm was about. Along about eight o'clock it began to lighten, and

my hopes rose. We could catch an occasional glimpse of the crowning peak

and of the observatory, which we knew contained two or three of

Janssen's men and some provisions. An hour later, when the storm seemed

about at an end, and we were preparing to ascend to the top, we saw the

men from the observatory coming down. They warned us that the snow above

was in bad condition, and, believing that more foul weather was to come,

they were embracing this opportunity to get down. Couttet proposed that

we should accompany them, especially as they reported nothing left to

eat at the observatory, but I declined. Again the event proved that he

was right, for while we waited a little before starting out, the storm

fell upon us once more. Then Couttet insisted upon descending, and I did

not think it wise to oppose his decision, knowing that it was based upon

experience and that he had nothing to gain and something to lose in

returning without having conducted his "monsieur" to the summit.

[Illustration: A BIRTHPLACE OF AVALANCHES, MONT BLANC.]

A SECOND ATTEMPT FOR THE SUMMIT.

We put on the rope and scrambled down, but when we got upon the neck

below the Bosses the clouds whirled off and the burnished sun stood over

the white peak, too splendid to be looked upon.

"Couttet, we must go up," I exclaimed.

"As you say," he replied; and we turned upon our track.

We had got back to the hut and started up the steep arête above it, when

the sun disappeared, the air turned white, and the wind resumed its

wrestle. So powerful was it that on our narrow ridge it had the

advantage of us, and we crouched behind a projecting point.

"It is too perilous," said Couttet, "and we must descend. I will not

take the risk."

I saw it was necessary to yield, and down we went. Hunger was beginning

to tell, and we made haste. Where the slopes were not seamed with open

crevasses we "glissaded," which is a very expeditious and exhilarating

method of getting down a mountain, although unsafe unless one is certain

of his ground. Sometimes we slid on our feet, steadying ourselves with

our batons or ice-axes, and sometimes I sat on the hard snow and glided

like a Turk on a toboggan slide, the tassel of my woollen cap fluttering

behind in the wind. We took the unbridged crevasses with flying leaps,

and so plunged rapidly downward, with frequent keen regrets on my part,

because the weather seemed mending again. But it would not do to turn

back now in our half-famished condition, and we were glad when the

Grands Mulets hove in sight below, a black squadron in a sea of snow.

[Illustration: M. JANSSEN'S OBSERVATORY ON TOP OF MONT BLANC.]

In Chamonix I took a day or two to thaw out and mend bruises, and then

ran over to Martigny, crossed the Grand St. Bernard, the St. Gotthard,

and the Grimsel passes, spent a week in William Tell's country, prowling

about the ruins of old castles and the sites of legendary battles, and

finally settled down in Milan to feast my eyes on the pinnacles of its

wondrous cathedral. But my failure to reach the top of Mont Blanc cast a

perceptible shadow over everything I saw.

One day, the 27th of August, as I stood on the cathedral spire, the sun

lay warm upon the Alps, and Mont Blanc shone in the distance. "It is

time to go," I said to myself; and descending, I hurried to my hotel and

packed a gripsack. The night express via Mont Cenis placed me in Geneva

the next morning in time to catch the first train for Cluses. The same

evening the diligence landed me in Chamonix. I sent for Couttet.

"Mont Blanc in the morning," I said.

"Delighted, monsieur; we'll do it this time."

"Storm or no storm?"

"Yes."

It so happened that I was to hear one more story of disaster before

getting to the top of Mont Blanc. While I watched the distant mountain

from the Milan cathedral spire the closing scene of a new tragedy was

being enacted amid its merciless crevasses. Dr. Robert Schnurdreher, an

advocate of Prague, accompanied by Michael Savoye, guide, and Laurent

Brou, porter, ascended Mont Blanc from the Italian side on August 17th,

and passed the night in the hut on the Bosses du Dromadaire where, six

days before, I had had a stormy experience. But now the weather was

superb, and when, on the morning of the 18th, they started to descend to

Chamonix, no thought of impending evil could have oppressed their minds.

They passed the Grand Plateau and the Petit Plateau in safety, and

reached the labyrinth of crevasses between the cliffs of the Dome du

Gouter and the Grands Mulets. Just what happened then no one will ever

know, but there they disappeared from the world of the living.

[Illustration: VIEW FROM THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC, SHOWING THE

MATTERHORN IN THE DISTANCE.]

Eight days went by, and then a telegram was received at Chamonix from

the family of the guide Savoye, in Courmayer, Italy, inquiring if he and

his party had been seen. All Chamonix comprehended in an instant the

significance of that telegram, and thirty guides started post haste for

the mountains.

The fact was now recalled that several days before some of Monsieur

Janssen's porters had noticed an ice axe lying on the snow a little

aside from the ordinary route. They thought nothing of it at the time,

supposing that the implement had either been thrown away, or left behind

by some one who would return to get it. This abandoned axe now became

the first object of the search. Having discovered it, the guides knew

well where to look for its owner. The axe lay on a slope of snow almost

as hard as ice, and at the foot of the slope was the inevitable

crevasse; not one of the largest, being only fifteen feet wide by two

hundred long, and one hundred deep, but all too sufficient. They crept

to the edge, and peered into the gloomy depths. There lay the missing

men, still tied together. Schnurdreher and Savoye had apparently been

killed at once; but there was heart-rending evidence that Brou had

survived the fall, and made a pitiful effort to scale the perpendicular

walls of the ice chasm. Enclosed in bags of rough sacking, the bodies

were dragged with ropes down to the Pierre Pointue, and thence carried

to Chamonix. This is a time-honored procedure in such cases. Every boy

in Chamonix understands how a body should be brought down from Mont

Blanc.

On the night of my arrival Savoye and Brou had just been buried at

Chamonix, and money was being raised for the relief of their almost

destitute families. But Schnurdreher, in his mountain dress, with his

spiked shoes on his feet, still lay at the undertaker's, awaiting the

coming of his relatives.

A RACE FOR THE SUMMIT.

The morning of August 29th was cloudless, and with the same outfit as

before, but with a scion of the house of Balmat for porter in place of

the man who had filled that office on the first occasion, I started once

more for the frosty topknot of Europe. At the Grands Mulets we found two

Germans with their retinue of guides and porters, six persons in all,

who were also bound for the summit. They left the Grands Mulets at

midnight, and we followed them three-quarters of an hour later. There

was no moon, and Couttet carried a lantern. On reaching the Petit

Plateau we saw the lights of the other party flashing ahead of us, and

at the foot of the Grands Montées we overtook them. They had talked

confidently of making the ascent in extraordinarily quick time, and some

good-natured chaffing now passed between Couttet and the rival guides. I

had had no thought of a race; but I defy anybody, under the

circumstances in which we were placed, not to experience a little

spurring from the spirit of emulation. Jerking the rope to attract

Couttet's attention, I told him in a low voice to pass the others at the

first opportunity.

"We'll do it on the Grand Plateau," he whispered.

Five minutes later, however, the advance party paused to take breath. We

immediately broke out of their tracks in the snow and started to pass

around them; but they instantly accepted the challenge, and a scrambling

race began up the steep slope. Sometimes we sank so deep that time was

lost in extricating our legs, and again we slipped back, which was even

more annoying than sticking fast. The powdery snow flew about like dust,

and was occasionally dumped into my face by the piston-like action of my

knees. The lanterns jangled and flickered wildly, and in their shifting

and uncertain light, with our odd habiliments, we must have resembled a

company of mad demons on a lark.

Such a race in such a place could only last a couple of minutes, and it

was soon over, the American coming out ahead. Getting upon the Grand

Plateau, we did not stop to rest, but broke into a dog trot.

"Whatever happens, Couttet, we must be first at the top."

"Very well, monsieur."

From the Grand Plateau there are two ways to the summit: one by the

Bosses du Dromadaire, which we followed on the first attempt; the other,

which we now adopted, by the "Corridor." This is a steep furrow, crossed

by an ice precipice with a great crevasse near its foot, which leads

upward from the left-hand border of the Grand Plateau to a snowy saddle

between the Mont Maudit and a precipitous out-cropping of rock called

the Mur de la Cote. A faint glimmer of approaching dawn now lay on part

of the rim of mountains surrounding us.

When we reached the foot of the Corridor the lights of the other party

were not visible. But here step-cutting became necessary, and this

delayed us so much that presently I caught dancing gleams from the

pursuing lanterns moving rapidly at the bottom of the bowl of night out

of which we were climbing. They were fast gaining upon us.

"We must hurry, Couttet!"

"Yes, but no man goes quick here who does not go for the last time."

In fact, our position had an appearance of peril. We were part way up

the frozen precipice that cuts across the Corridor, and were balancing

ourselves on an acute wedge of ice which stood off several feet in front

of the precipice, being separated from it by a deep cleft. The outer

side of this wedge, whose edge we were traversing lengthwise, pitched

down into the darkness and ended, I believe, in a crevasse. Presently we

reached a place where the precipice overhung our precarious footway, and

an inverted forest of icicles depended above us.

"Make as little noise as possible, and step gently," said Couttet.

This is a familiar precaution in the High Alps, where the vibrations of

sound sometimes act the part of the trigger of a gun and let loose

terrific energies ready poised for action. The clinking of particles of

ice that shot from our feet into the depths distracted attention from

the beautiful play of the light of the lanterns on some of the hanging

masses.

At last we attained a point where it was possible, by swinging round a

somewhat awkward corner, to get upon the roof of the precipice. This we

found so steep that occasional steps had also to be cut there.

The lights of the pursuers had approached the foot of the wall, and

though now invisible, we knew the party was ascending close behind,

taking advantage of the steps we had made. This spurred us on, although

I was beginning to suffer some inconvenience from the rarity of the air,

and had to stop to breathe much oftener than I liked. In truth, the

spurt we had made, beginning at the Grands Montées, involved an

over-expenditure of energy whose effects I could not escape, and nature

was already demanding usury for the loan.

As we approached the ridge of the saddle, day rose blushing in the east,

and Couttet put out the lantern. Turning to the right, we hurried in

zigzags up the slippery Mur de la Cote, stopping to cut steps only when

strictly necessary. While we were ascending this wall the sun appeared,

and hung for a moment, a great, dazzling, fire-colored circle, on a

distant mountain rim. Below us for a long time the great valleys

remained filled with gloom, while out of and around there rose hundreds

of peaks, tipped with pink and gold. But very few of the towering giants

now reached to our level, and in a little while we should be above them

all.

Once on top of the Mur we had level going again for a space, and

hurrying to the base of the crowning dome, which swells upward another

thousand feet, we began its ascent without stopping. About half way up

the dome the highest visible rocks of Mont Blanc on this side break

through the Mur. They are called the Petits Mulets. We had nearly

reached them when, looking back, I saw the heads of the other party

appearing on the brink of the Mur. They looked up at us hanging right

above them on the white slope, while Couttet carried my handkerchief,

streaming triumphantly in the morning wind, from the end of his baton.

Waving their hands, they sat down and gave up the race. While they

lunched we pushed upward more slowly, and at six o'clock entered the

door of Monsieur Janssen's observatory, fifteen thousand seven hundred

and seventy-seven feet above the sea.

My first look was directed to the Matterhorn, which, thirty-five miles

away, pierced the morning sky with its black spike. Glittering near it

were the snow turrets of Monte Rosa, the Dent Blanche, and all the

marvellous circle of peaks that stand around Zermatt. There was not a

cloud to break the view. On one side lay Italy; on the other France. It

would be impossible to imagine the wild scene immediately below us. The

tremendous slopes of snow falling away on all sides, now in steep

inclines and now in broken precipices, ever down and down, were not

after all so imposing as the jagged pinnacles of bare rock that sprang

out of them.

There was something peculiarly savage, almost menacing, in the aspect of

these lower mountains, pressing in serried ranks around their

white-capped chief. They seemed to shut us far away from the human world

below, and one felt that he had placed himself entirely in the hands of

nature. This was her realm, where she acknowledged no laws but her own,

and was incapable of sympathy, pity, or remorse.

FAIRY GOLD.

BY MARY STEWART CUTTING,

Author of "The Coupons of Fortune," "Henry," and other stories.

When Mr. William Belden walked out of his house one wet October evening

and closed the hall door carefully behind him, he had no idea that he

was closing the door on all the habits of his maturer life and entering

the borders of a land as far removed from his hopes or his imagination

as the country of the Gadarenes.

He had not wanted to go out that evening at all, not knowing what the

fates had in store for him, and being only too conscious of the comfort

of the sitting-room lounge, upon which, after the manner of the suburban

resident who travelleth daily by railways, he had cast himself

immediately after the evening meal was over. The lounge was in

proximity--yet not too close proximity--to the lamp on the table; so

that one might have the pretext of reading to cover closed eyelids and a

general oblivion of passing events. On a night when a pouring rain

splashed outside on the pavements and the tin roofs of the piazzas, the

conditions of rest in the cosey little room were peculiarly attractive

to a man who had come home draggled and wet, and with the toil and wear

of a long business day upon him. It was therefore with a sinking of the

heart that he heard his wife's gentle tones requesting him to wend his

way to the grocery to purchase a pound of butter.

"I hate to ask you to go, William dear, but there really is not a scrap

in the house for breakfast, and the butter-man does not come until

to-morrow afternoon," she said deprecatingly. "It really will only take

you a few minutes."

Mr. Belden smothered a groan, or perhaps something worse. The butter

question was a sore one, Mrs. Belden taking only a stated quantity of

that article a week, and always unexpectedly coming short of it before

the day of replenishment, although no argument ever served to induce her

to increase the original amount for consumption.

"Cannot Bridget go?" he asked weakly, gazing at the small, plump figure

of his wife, as she stood with meek yet inexorable eyes looking down at

him.

"Bridget is washing the dishes, and the stores will be closed before she

can get out."

"Can't one of the boys--" He stopped. There was in this household a god

who ruled everything in it, to whom all pleasures were offered up, all

individual desires sacrificed, and whose Best Good was the greedy and

unappreciative Juggernaut before whom Mr. Belden and his wife prostrated

themselves daily. This idol was called The Children. Mr. Belden felt

that he had gone too far.

"William!" said his wife severely, "I am surprised at you. John and

Henry have their lessons to get, and Willy has a cold; I could not think

of exposing him to the night air; and it is so damp, too!"

Mr. Belden slowly and stiffly rose from his reclining position on the

sofa. There was a finality in his wife's tone before which he succumbed.

The night air _was_ damp. As he walked along the street the water

slopped around his feet, and ran in rills down his rubber coat. He did

not feel as contented as usual. When he was a youngster, he reflected

with exaggerated bitterness, boys were boys, and not treated like

precious pieces of porcelain. He did not remember, as a boy, ever having

any special consideration shown him; yet he had been both happy and

healthy, healthier perhaps than his over-tended brood at home. In his

day it had been popularly supposed that nothing could hurt a boy. He

heaved a sigh over the altered times, and then coughed a little, for he

had a cold as well as Willy.

The streets were favorable to silent meditation, for there was no one

out in them. The boughs of the trees swished backward and forward in the

storm, and the puddles at the crossings reflected the dismal yellow

glare of the street lamps. Every one was housed to-night in the pretty

detached cottages he passed, and he thought with growing wrath of the

trivial errand on which he had been sent. "In happy homes he saw the

light," but none of the high purpose of the youth of "Excelsior" fame

stirred his heart--rather a dull sense of failure from all high things.

What did his life amount to anyway, that he should count one thing more

trivial than another? He loved his wife and children dearly, but he

remembered a time when his ambition had not thought of being satisfied

with the daily grind for a living and a dreamless sleep at night.

"'Our life is but a sleep and a forgetting,'" he thought grimly, "in

quite a different way from what Wordsworth meant." He had been one of

the foremost in his class at college, an orator, an athlete, a favorite

in society and with men. Great things had been predicted for him. Then

he had fallen in love with Nettie; a professional career seemed to place

marriage at too great a distance, and he had joyfully, yet with some

struggles in his protesting intellect, accepted a position that was

offered to him--one of those positions which never change, in which men

die still unpromoted, save when a miracle intervenes. It was not so good

a position for a family of six as it had been for a family of two, but

he did not complain. He and Nettie went shabby, but the children were

clothed in the best, as was their due.

He was too wearied at night to read anything but the newspapers, and the

gentle domestic monotony was not inspiring. He and Nettie never went out

in the evenings; the children could not be left alone. He met his

friends on the train in that diurnal journey to and from the great city,

and she occasionally attended a church tea; but their immediate and

engrossing world seemed to be made up entirely of persons under thirteen

years of age. They had dwelt in the place almost ever since their

marriage, respected and liked, but with no real social life. If Mr.

Belden thought of the years to come, he may be pardoned an unwonted

sinking of the heart.

It was while indulging in these reflections that he mechanically

purchased the pound of butter, which he could not help comparing with

Shylock's pound of flesh, so much of life had it taken out of him, and

then found himself stepping up on the platform of the station, led by

his engrossing thoughts to pass the street corner and tread the path

most familiar to him. He turned with an exclamation to retrace his way,

when a man pacing leisurely up and down, umbrella in hand, caught sight

of him.

"Is that you, Belden?" said the stranger. "What are you doing down here

to-night?"

"I came out on an errand for my wife," said Belden sedately. He

recognized the man as a young lawyer, much identified with politics; a

mere acquaintance, yet it was a night to make any speaking animal seem a

friend, and Mr. Belden took a couple of steps along beside him.

"Waiting for a train?" he said.

"Oh, thunder, yes!" said Mr. Groper, throwing away the stump of a cigar.

"I have been waiting for the last half hour for the train; it's late, as

usual. There's a whole deputation from Barnet on board, due at the

Reform meeting in town to-night, and I'm part of the committee to meet

them here."

"Where is the other part of the committee?" asked Mr. Belden.

"Oh, Jim Crane went up to the hall to see about something, and Connors

hasn't showed up at all; I suppose the rain kept him back. What kind of

a meeting we're going to have I don't know. Say, Belden, I'm not up to

this sort of thing. I wish you'd stay and help me out--there's no end of

swells coming down, more your style than mine."

"Why, man alive, I can't do anything for you," said Mr. Belden. "These

carriages I see are waiting for the delegation, and here comes the train

now; you'll get along all right."

He waited as the train slowed into the station, smiling anew at little

Groper's perturbation. He was quite curious to see the arrivals. Barnet

had been the home of his youth, and there might be some one whom he

knew. He had half intended, earlier in the day, to go himself to the

Reform meeting, but a growing spirit of inaction had made him give up

the idea. Yes, there was quite a carload of people getting out--ladies,

too.

"Why, Will Belden!" called out a voice from the party. A tall fellow in

a long ulster sprang forward to grasp his hand. "You don't say it's

yourself come down to meet us. Here we all are, Johnson, Clemmerding,

Albright, Cranston---all the old set. Rainsford, you've heard of my

cousin, Will Belden. My wife and Miss Wakeman are behind here; but we'll

do all the talking afterward, if you'll only get us off for the hall

now."

"Well, I am glad to see you, Henry," said Mr. Belden heartily. He thrust

the pound of butter hastily into a large pocket of his mackintosh, and

found himself shaking hands with a score of men. He had only time to

assist his cousin's wife and the beautiful Miss Wakeman into a carriage,

and in another moment they were all rolling away toward the town hall,

with little Mr. Groper running frantically after them, ignored by the

visitors, and peacefully forgotten by his friend.

The public hall of the little town--which called itself a city--was all

ablaze with light as the party entered it, and well filled,

notwithstanding the weather. There were flowers on the platform where

the seats for the distinguished guests were placed, and a general air of

radiance and joyful import prevailed. It was a gathering of men from all

political parties, concerned in the welfare of the State. Great measures

were at stake, and the election of governor of immediate importance. The

name of Judge Belden of Barnet was prominently mentioned. He had not

been able to attend on this particular occasion, but his son had come

with a delegation from the county town, twenty miles away, to represent

his interests. On Mr. William Belden devolved the task of introducing

the visitors; a most congenial one, he suddenly found it to be.

His friends rallied around him as people are apt to do with one of their

own kind when found in a foreign country. They called him Will, as they

used to, and slapped him on the shoulder in affectionate abandon. Those

among the group who had not known him before were anxious to claim

acquaintance on the strength of his fame, which, it seemed, still

survived him in his native town. It must not be supposed that he had not

seen either his cousin or his friends during his sojourn away from them;

on the contrary, he had met them once or so in two or three years, in

the street, or on the ferry-boat--though they travelled by different

roads--but he had then been but a passing interest in the midst of

pressing business. To-night he was the only one of their kind in a

strange place---his cousin loved him, they all loved him. The expedition

had the sentiment of a frolic under the severer political aspect.

In the welcome to the visitors by the home committee Mr. Belden also

received his part, in their surprised recognition of him, almost

amounting to a discovery.

"We had no idea that you were a nephew of Judge Belden," one of them

said to him, speaking for his colleagues, who stood near.

Mr. William Belden bowed, and smiled; as a gentleman, and a rather

reticent one, it had never occurred to him to parade his family

connections. His smile might mean anything. It made the good

committeeman, who was rich and full of power, feel a little

uncomfortable, as he tried to cover his embarrassment with effusive

cordiality. In the background stood Mr. Groper, wet, and breathing hard,

but plainly full of admiration for his tall friend, and the position he

held as the centre of the group. The visitors referred all arrangements

to him.

At last they filed on to the platform--the two cousins together.

"You must find a place for the girls," said Henry Belden, with the

peculiar boyish giggle that his cousin remembered so well. "By George,

they _would_ come; couldn't keep 'em at home, after they once got

Jim Shore to say it was all right. Of course, Marie Wakeman started it;

she said she was bound to go to a political meeting and sit on the

platform; arguing wasn't a bit of use. When she got Clara on her side I

knew that I was doomed. Now, you couldn't get them to do a thing of this

kind at home; but take a woman out of her natural sphere, and she

ignores conventionalities, just like a girl in a bathing-suit. There

they are, seated over in that corner. I'm glad that they are hidden from

the audience by the pillar. Of course, there's that fool of a Jim, too,

with Marie."

"You don't mean to say she's at it yet?" said his cousin William.

"'At it yet'! She's never stopped for a moment since you kissed her that

night on the hotel piazza after the hop, under old Mrs. Trelawney's

window--do you remember that, Will?"

Mr. William Belden did indeed remember it; it was a salute that had

echoed around their little world, leading, strangely enough, to the

capitulation of another heart--it had won him his wife. But the little

intimate conversation was broken off as the cousins took the places

allotted to them, and the business of the meeting began.

If he were not the chairman, he was appealed to so often as to almost

serve in that capacity. He became interested in the proceedings, and in

the speeches that were made; none of them, however, quite covered the

ground as he understood it. His mind unconsciously formulated

propositions as the flow of eloquence went on. It therefore seemed only

right and fitting toward the end of the evening, when it became evident

that his Honor the Mayor was not going to appear, that our distinguished

fellow-citizen, Mr. William Belden, nephew of Judge Belden of Barnet,

should be asked to represent the interests of the county in a speech,

and that he should accept the invitation.

He stood for a moment silent before the assembly, and then all the old

fire that had lain dormant for so long blazed forth in the speech that

electrified the audience, was printed in all the papers afterward, and

fitted into a political pamphlet.

He began with a comprehensive statement of facts, he drew large and

logical deductions from them, and then lit up the whole subject with

those brilliant flashes of wit and sarcasm for which he had been famous

in bygone days. More than that, a power unknown before had come to him;

he felt the real knowledge and grasp of affairs which youth had denied

him, and it was with an exultant thrill that his voice rang through the

crowded hall, and stirred the hearts of men. For the moment they felt as

he felt, and thought as he thought, and a storm of applause arose as he

ended--applause that grew and grew until a few more pithy words were

necessary from the orator before silence could be restored.

He made his way to the back of the hall for some water, and then, half

exhausted, yet tingling still from the excitement, dropped into an empty

chair by the side of Miss Wakeman.

"Well done, Billy," she said, giving him a little approving tap with her

fan. "You were just fine." She gave him an upward glance from her large

dark eyes. "Do you know you haven't spoken to me to-night, nor shaken

hands with me?"

"Let us shake hands now," he said, smiling, flushed with success, as he

looked into the eyes of this very pretty woman.

"I shall take off my glove first--such old friends as we are! It must be

a real ceremony."

She laid a soft, white, dimpled hand, covered with glistening rings, in

his outstretched palm, and gazed at him with coquettish plaintiveness.

"It's so _lovely_ to see you again! Have you forgotten the night

you kissed me?"

"I have thought of it daily," he replied, giving her hand a hearty

squeeze. They both laughed, and he took a surreptitious peep at her from

under his eyelids. Marie Wakeman! Yes, truly, the same, and with the

same old tricks. He had been married for nearly fourteen years, his

children were half grown, he had long since given up youthful

friskiness, but she was "at it" still. Why, she had been older than he

when they were boy and girl; she must be for--He gazed at her soft,

rounded, olive cheek, and quenched the thought.

"And you are very happy?" she pursued, with tender solicitude. "Nettie

makes you a perfect wife, I suppose."

"Perfect," he assented gravely.

"And you haven't missed me at all?"

"Can you ask?" It was the way in which all men spoke to Marie Wakeman,

married or single, rich or poor, one with another. He laughed inwardly

at his lapse into the expected tone. "I feel that I really breathe for

the first time in years, now that I'm with you again. But how is it that

you are not married?"

"What, after I had known you?" She gave him a reproachful glance. "And

you were so cruel to me--as soon as you had made your little Nettie

jealous you cared for me no longer. Look what I've declined to!" She

indicated Jim Shore, leaning disconsolately against the cornice, chewing

his moustache. "Now don't give him your place unless you really want to;

well, if you're tired of me already--thank you ever so much, and I

_am_ proud of you to-night, Billy!"

Her lustrous eyes dwelt on him lingeringly as he left her; he smiled

back into them. The lines around her mouth were a little hard; she

reminded him indefinably of "She;" but she was a handsome woman, and he

had enjoyed the encounter. The sight of her brought back so vividly the

springtime of life; his hopes, the pangs of love, the joy that was his

when Nettie was won; he felt an overpowering throb of tenderness for the

wife at home who had been his early dream.

The last speeches were over, but Mr. William Belden's triumph had not

ended. As the acknowledged orator of the evening he had an ovation

afterward; introductions and unlimited hand-shakings were in order.

He was asked to speak at a select political dinner the next week; to

speak for the hospital fund; to speak for the higher education of woman.

Led by a passing remark of Henry Belden's to infer that his cousin was a

whist player of parts, a prominent social magnate at once invited him to

join the party at his house on one of their whist evenings.

"My wife, er--will have great pleasure in calling on Mrs. Belden," said

the magnate. "We did not know that we had a good whist player among us.

This evening has indeed been a revelation in many ways--in many ways.

You would have no objection to taking a prominent part in politics,

if you were called upon? A reform mayor is sadly needed in our

city--sadly needed. Your connection with Judge Belden would give great

weight to any proposition of that kind. But, of course, all this is in

the future."

Mr. Belden heard his name whispered in another direction, in connection

with the cashiership of the new bank which was to be built. The

cashiership and the mayoralty might be nebulous honors, but it

_was_ sweet, for once, to be recognized for what he was--man of

might; a man of talent, and of honor.

There was a hurried rush for the train at the last on the part of the

visitors. Mr. William Belden snatched his mackintosh from the peg

whereon it had hung throughout the evening, and went with the crowd,

talking and laughing in buoyant exuberance of spirits. The night had

cleared, the moon was rising, and poured a flood of light upon the wet

streets. It was a different world from the one he had traversed earlier

in the evening. He walked home with Miss Wakeman's exaggeratedly tender

"Good-by, dear Billy!" ringing in his ears, to provoke irrepressible

smiles. The pulse of a free life, where men lived instead of vegetating,

was in his veins. His footstep gave forth a ringing sound from the

pavement; he felt himself stalwart, alert, his brain rejoicing in its

sense of power. It was even with no sense of guilt that he heard the

church clocks striking twelve as he reached the house where his wife had

been awaiting his return for four hours.

She was sitting up for him, as he knew by the light in the parlor

window. He could see her through the half-closed blinds as she sat by

the table, a magazine in her lap, her attitude, unknown to herself,

betraying a listless depression. After all, is a woman glad to have all

her aspirations and desires confined within four walls? She may love her

cramped quarters, to be sure, but can she always forget that they are

cramped? To what does a wife descend after the bright dreams of her

girlhood! Does she really like above all things to be absorbed in the

daily consumption of butter, and the children's clothes, or is she

absorbed in these things because the man who was to have widened the

horizon of her life only limits it by his own decadence?

She rose to meet her husband as she heard his key in the lock. She had

exchanged her evening gown for a loose, trailing white wrapper, and her

fair hair was arranged for the night in a long braid. Her husband had a

smile on his face.

"You look like a girl again," he said brightly, as he stooped and kissed

her. "No, don't turn out the light, come in and sit down a while longer,

I've ever so much to tell you. You can't guess where I've been this

evening."

"At the political meeting," she said promptly.

"How on earth did you know?"

"The doctor came here to see Willy, and he told me he saw you on the

way. I'm glad you did go, William; I was worrying because I had sent you

out; I did not realize until later what a night it was."

"Well, I am very glad that you did send me," said her husband. He lay

back in his chair, flushed and smiling at the recollection. "You ought

to have been there, too; you would have liked it. What will you say if I

tell you that I made a speech--yes, it is quite true--and was applauded

to the echo. This town has just waked up to the fact that I live in it.

And Henry said--but there, I'll have to tell you the whole thing, or you

can't appreciate it."

His wife leaned on the arm of his chair, watching his animated face

fondly, as he recounted the adventures of the night. He pictured the

scene vividly, and with a strong sense of humor.

"And you don't say that Marie Wakeman is the same as ever?" she

interrupted, with a flash of special interest. "Oh, William!"

"_She_ called me Billy." He laughed anew at the thought. "Upon my

word, Nettie, she beats anything I ever saw or heard of."

"Did she remind you of the time you kissed her?"

"Yes!" Their eyes met in amused recognition of the past.

"Is she as handsome as ever?"

"Um--yes--I think so. She isn't as pretty as you are."

"Oh, Will!" She blushed and dimpled.

"I declare, it is true!" He gazed at her with genuine admiration. "What

has come over you to-night, Nettie?--you look like a girl again."

"And you were not sorry when you saw her, that--that--"

"Sorry! I have been thinking all the way home how glad I was to have won

my sweet wife. But we mustn't stay shut up at home as much as we have;

it's not good for either of us. We are to be asked to join the whist

club--what do you think of that? You used to be a little card fiend once

upon a time, I remember."

She sighed. "It is so long since I have been anywhere! I'm afraid I

haven't any clothes, Will. I suppose I _might_--"

"What, dear?"

"Take the money I had put aside for Mary's next quarter's music lessons;

I do really believe a little rest would do her good."

"It would--it would," said Mr. Belden with suspicious eagerness. Mary's

after-dinner practising hour had tinged much of his existence with gall.

"I insist that Mary shall have a rest. And you shall join the reading

society now. Let us consider ourselves a little as well as the children;

it's really best for them, too. Haven't we immortal souls as well as

they? Can we expect them to seek the honey dew of paradise while they

see us contented to feed on the grass of the field?"

"You call yourself an orator!" she scoffed.

He drew her to him by one end of the long braid, and solemnly kissed

her. Then he went into the hall and took something from the pocket of

his mackintosh which he placed in his wife's hand--a little wooden dish

covered with a paper, through which shone a bright yellow substance--the

pound of butter, a lump of gleaming fairy gold, the quest of which had

changed a poor, commonplace existence into one scintillating with magic

possibilities.

Fairy gold, indeed, cannot be coined into marketable eagles. Mr. William

Belden might never achieve either the mayoralty or the cashiership, but

he had gained that of which money is only a trivial accessory. The

recognition of men, the flashing of high thought to high thought, the

claim of brotherhood in the work of the world, and the generous social

intercourse that warms the earth--all these were to be his. Not even his

young ambition had promised a wider field, not the gold of the Indies

could buy him more of honor and respect.

At home also the spell worked. He had but to speak the word, to name the

thing, and Nettie embodied his thought. He called her young, and happy

youth smiled from her clear eyes; beautiful, and a blushing loveliness

enveloped her; clever, and her ready mind leaped to match with his in

thought and study; dear, and love touched her with its transforming fire

and breathed of long-forgotten things.

If men only knew what they could make of the women who love them--but

they do not, as the plodding, faded matrons who sit and sew by their

household fires testify to us daily.

Happy indeed is he who can create a paradise by naming it!

[Illustration: FIGURE I.--APPARATUS USED BY PROFESSOR W.F. MAGIE IN

TAKING A SKIAGRAPH OF A HAND.

The Ruhmkorff coil in the background; the Crookes tube in front of it;

under the hand is the photographic plate in its plate-holder.]

THE USE OF THE RÖNTGEN X RAYS IN SURGERY.

BY W.W. KEEN, M.D., LL.D.

The nineteenth century resembles the sixteenth in many ways. In or about

the sixteenth we have the extensive use of the mariner's compass and of

gunpowder, the discovery of printing, the discovery and exploration of

America, and the acquisition of territory in the New World by various

European states. In the nineteenth century we have the exploration of

Africa and the acquisition of territory in its interior, in which the

various nations of Europe vie with each other again as three centuries

before; the discovery of steam, and its ever-growing application to the

transportation of goods and passengers on sea and land; of the

spectroscope, and through it of many new elements, including helium in

the sun, and, later, on the earth; of argon in the earth's atmosphere;

of anæsthetics and of the antiseptic methods in surgery, and, lastly,

the enormous recent strides in electrical science.

Not only has electricity been applied to transportation and the

development of light and power; but the latest discovery by Professor

Röntgen of the X rays seems destined, possibly, not only to

revolutionize our ideas of radiation in all its forms on the scientific

side, but also on the practical side to be of use in the domain of

medicine. It is, therefore, with great pleasure that I accede to the

request of the editor of this Magazine to state briefly what has been

achieved in the department of medicine up to the present time.

The method of investigating the body by means of the X rays is very

simple, as is shown in Figure 1. The Crookes tube, actuated from a

storage battery or other source of electricity through a Ruhmkorff coil,

is placed on one side of the body. If need be, instead of using the

entire tube, the rays from the most effective portion of it only are

allowed to impinge upon the part of the body to be investigated, through

an opening in a disk of lead interposed between the Crookes tube and the

body. On the other side of the part to be investigated is placed a quick

photographic plate shut up in its plate-holder, and is exposed to the

rays emanating from the tube for a greater or less length of time. The

parts of the plate not protected by the body are acted upon by the rays,

through the lid of the plate-holder (to which the rays are pervious),

while the tissues of the body act, feebly or strongly, as the case may

be, as obstacles to the rays. Hence, the part of the plate thus

protected is less acted upon than the rest, and a shadow is produced

upon the plate. The soft tissues of the body form but a very slight

obstacle to the passage of the rays, and, hence, throw very faint

shadows on the plate. The more dense portions, presenting a greater

obstacle to the passage of the rays, throw deeper shadows; hence the

bones are seen as dark shadows, the soft parts as lighter ones. That the

flesh or soft parts are not wholly permeable to the rays is well shown

in the skiagraph--i.e., a "shadow picture"--of a foot. (Figure

2.) Where two toes overlap, it will be observed that there is a deeper

shadow, like the section of a biconvex lens.

[Illustration: FIGURE 2.--SKIAGRAPH OF A FOOT, SHOWING AN EXTRA BONE IN

THE GREAT TOE, WHICH WAS REMOVED BY PROFESSOR MOSETIG.

(From the "British Medical Journal.")]

When we attempt to skiagraph the thicker portions of the body, for

example, the shoulder, the thigh, or the trunk, even the parts

consisting only of flesh obstruct the rays to such an extent, by reason

of their thickness, that the shadows of the still more dense tissues,

like the thigh bone, the arm bone, or the bones of the trunk, cannot be

distinguished from the shadows of the thicker soft parts. Tesla

("Electrical Review," March 11, 1896) has to some extent overcome these

difficulties by his improved apparatus, and has skiagraphed, though

rather obscurely, the shoulder and trunk, and Rowland has been able to

do the same. Doubtless when we are able to devise apparatus of greater

penetration, and to control the effect of the rays, we shall be able to

skiagraph clearly even through the entire thickness of the body.

It might be supposed that clothing or surgical dressings would prove an

obstacle to this new photography, but all our preconceived notions

derived from the ordinary photograph must be thrown aside. The bones of

the forearm or the hand can be as readily skiagraphed through a

voluminous surgical dressing or through the ordinary clothing, as when

the parts are entirely divested of any covering. Even bed-ridden

patients can be skiagraphed through the bed-clothes, and, therefore,

without danger from exposure.

[Illustration: FIGURE 3.--SKETCH OF A BABY'S FOOT AS SEEN THROUGH THE

SKIASCOPE.

(From the "American Journal of the Medical Sciences," March, 1896.)]

[Illustration: FIGURE 4.--SKETCH OF A BABY'S KNEE AS SEEN THROUGH THE

SKIASCOPE.

(From the "American Journal of the Medical Sciences," March, 1896.)]

One of the principal difficulties of the method at present is the time

ordinarily required to obtain a good picture. Usually this time may be

stated at in the neighborhood of an hour, though many good skiagraphs

have been taken in a half hour or twenty minutes. It is stated that

Messrs. McLeennan, Wright, and Keele of Toronto have reduced the

necessary time to one second, and that Mr. Edison has taken even

instantaneous pictures; but I am not aware of the publication of any

pictures showing how perfect these results are. Undoubtedly, as a result

of the labors of so many scores of physicists and physicians as are now

working at the problem, before long we shall be able to skiagraph at

least the thinner parts of the body in a very brief interval. The

brevity of the exposure will also better the pictures in another way. At

present, if the attempt is made to skiagraph the shoulder or parts of

the trunk, we have to deal with organs which cannot be kept motionless,

since the movements incident to breathing produce a constant to and fro

movement of the shoulder, the lungs, the heart, the stomach, the liver,

and other organs which, hereafter, may be made accessible to this

process. There is no serious discomfort excepting the somewhat irksome

necessity of remaining absolutely still.

Another method of seeing the denser tissues of the body is by direct

observation. A means of seeing through the thinner parts of the body,

such as the fingers or the toes, has been devised simultaneously by

Salvioni of Italy, and Professor Magie of Princeton. Their instruments

are practically identical, consisting of a hollow cylinder a few inches

long, one end of which is applied to the eye, the other end, instead of

having a lens, being covered by a piece of paper smeared with a

phosphorescent salt, the double cyanide of platinum and barium. When the

hand is held before a Crookes tube, and is looked at through the

cylinder, we can see the bones of the hand or foot almost as clearly as

is shown in Figure 2. It has not yet, I believe, been applied to thicker

parts of the body. Figures 3 and 4 show a baby's foot and knee as seen

through this tube. The partial development of the bones accounts for the

peculiar appearance. There is no bony knee-pan, or patella, at birth,

and the bones of the toes consist only of cartilage, which is

translucent, and therefore not seen. The name given by Professor

Salvioni to this sort of "spy-glass"--if one may apply this term to an

instrument which has no glass--is that of "cryptoscope" (seeing that

which is hidden). The name suggested by Professor Magie is "skiascope"

(seeing a shadow.)

This leads me to say a word in reference to the nomenclature. The very

unfortunate name "shadowgraph" has been suggested and largely used in

the newspapers, and even in medical journals. It has only the merit of

clearness as to its meaning to English-speaking persons. It is, however,

an abominable linguistic crime, being an unnatural compound of English

and Greek. "Radiograph" and its derivatives are equally objectionable as

compounds of Latin and Greek. The Greek word for shadow is "skia," and

the proper rendering, therefore, of shadowgraph is "skiagraph,"

corresponding to photograph.

The first question that meets us in the use of the method in medicine is

what normal constituents of the body are permeable or impermeable to the

X rays. It may be stated, in a general way, that all of the fleshy parts

of the body are partially permeable to the rays in a relatively short

time; and if the exposure is long enough, they become entirely

permeable, so that no shadow is cast. Even the bones, on

_prolonged_ exposure, do not present a sufficient obstacle to the

passage of the rays, and the shadow originally cast becomes obliterated.

Hence, skiagraphs of the same object exposed to the rays for varying

times may be of value in showing the different tissues. The most

permeable of the normal tissues are cartilage or gristle, and fat. A

kidney (out of the body) is stated by Dr. Reid of Dundee to show the

difference between the rind, or secreting portion, which is more

transparent, and the central portion, consisting chiefly of conducting

tubes, which is less transparent. On the contrary, in the brain the gray

cortex, or rind, is less transparent than the white nerve tubules in the

centre.

The denser fibrous tissues, such as the ligaments of joints and the

tendons or sinews of muscles, cast very perceptible shadows, so that

when we come to a thick tendon like the tendo Achillis, the shadow

approaches even the density of the shadow cast by bone. I presume that

it is for the same reason (the dense fibrous envelope, or sclerotic

coat) that the eye-ball is not translucent to the rays, as is seen in

Figure 5, of a bullock's eye.

[Illustration: FIGURE 5.--SKIAGRAPH OF A BULLOCK'S EYE.

(From the "American Journal of the Medical Sciences," March 1896.)]

Mr. Arthur H. Lea has ingeniously suggested that the translucency of the

soft parts of the living and of those of the dead body might show a

difference, and that, if such were the case, it might be used as a

definite test of death. Unfortunately Figure 6, of a dead hand, when

contrasted with Figure 11, of a living hand, shows virtually no

difference, and the method cannot be used as a positive proof of death.

That we are not able at present to skiagraph the soft parts of the body,

does not imply that we shall not be able to do it hereafter; and should

this be possible, especially with our increasing ability to penetrate

thick masses of tissue, it is evident, without entering into details,

that the use of the X rays may be of immense importance in obstetrics.

The bones, however, as is seen in nearly all of the skiagraphs

illustrating this paper, cast well-defined shadows. This is at once an

advantage and a hindrance. To illustrate the latter first, even one

thickness of bone is difficult to penetrate, so that the attempt to

skiagraph the opening which had been made in a skull of a living person

by a trephine entirely failed, since the bone upon the opposite side of

the skull formed so dense an obstacle that not the slightest indication

of the trephine opening appeared. To take, therefore, a skiagraph of a

brain through two thicknesses of skull, with our present methods, is an

impossibility. Even should the difficulty be overcome, it is very

doubtful whether there would be any possibility of discovering diseases

of the brain, since diseased tissues, such as cancer, sarcoma, etc., are

probably as permeable to the X rays as the normal tissues. Thus Reid

("British Medical Journal," February 15, 1896) states that a cancerous

liver showed no difference in permeability to the rays through its

cancerous and its normal portions.

Foreign bodies, such as bullets, etc., in the brain may be discovered

when our processes have become perfected. Figure 7 shows two buck-shot

skiagraphed inside of a baby's skull, and therefore through two

thicknesses of bone. It must be remembered, however, that not only are

the bones of a baby's skull much less thick than those of an adult's

skull, but they are much less densely ossified, and so throw far less of

a shadow.

The dense shadows cast by bone are, at least at present, an insuperable

obstacle to skiagraphing the soft translucent organs of the body which

are enclosed within a more or less complete bony case, as the rays will

be intercepted by the bones. Efforts, therefore, to skiagraph the heart,

the lungs, the liver, and stomach, and all the pelvic organs, probably

will be fruitless to a greater or less extent until our methods are

improved. While a stone in a bladder outside the body would undoubtedly

be perceptible, in the body the bones of the pelvis prevent any

successful picture being taken.

[Illustration: FIGURE 6.--SKIAGRAPH OF A DEAD HAND AND WRIST, SHOWING

TWO BUCK-SHOT AND A NEEDLE EMBEDDED IN THE FLESH.

("American Journal of the Medical Sciences," March, 1896.)]

To turn from the hindrances to the advantages of the application of the

method to the bones, one of the most important uses will be in diseases

and injuries of bones. In many cases it is very difficult to determine,

even under ether, by the most careful manipulations, whether there is a

fracture or a dislocation, or both combined. When any time has elapsed

after the accident, the great swelling which often quickly follows such

injuries still further obscures the diagnosis by manipulation. The X

rays, however, are oblivious, or nearly so, of all swelling, and the

bones can be skiagraphed in the thinner parts of the body at present,

say up to the elbow and the ankle, with very great accuracy. Thus,

Figure 8 shows the deformity from an old fracture of the ulna (one of

the bones of the forearm) very clearly.

By this means we shall be able to distinguish between fracture and

dislocation in obscure cases. Thus Mr. Gray ("British Medical Journal,"

March 7, 1896), in a case of injury to an elbow, was enabled to

diagnosticate and successfully to replace a very rare dislocation, which

could not be made out by manipulation, but was clearly shown by the X

rays. We may also possibly be able to determine when the bones are

properly adjusted after a fracture; and all the better, since the

skiagraph can be taken through the dressings, even if wooden splints

have been employed. If plaster of Paris is used (and it is often the

best "splint") this is impermeable to the rays.

That this method will come into general use, however, is very unlikely,

since the expense, the time, and the trouble will be so great that it

will be impracticable to use it in every case, especially in hospitals

or dispensaries, where crowds of patients have to be attended to in a

relatively brief time. In the surgical dispensary alone of the Jefferson

Medical College Hospital, about one hundred patients are in attendance

between twelve and two o'clock every day, and all the time of a large

number of assistants is occupied with dressing the cases. It would be

manifestly an utter impossibility to skiagraph the many fractures which

are seen there daily, considering that it would take from half an hour

to an hour of the time of not less than two or three assistants skilled

not only in surgery, but also in electricity, to skiagraph a single

fracture. Now and then, in obscure cases, however, the method will be

undoubtedly of great service, as in the case above described.

[Illustration: FIGURE 7.--SKIAGRAPH OF A BABY'S SKULL, SHOWING TWO

BUCK-SHOT PLACED UNDER THE SKULL.

("American Journal of the Medical Sciences," March, 1896.)]

Too hasty conclusions, especially in medico-legal cases, may easily be

reached. We do not yet know, by skiagraphs of successful results after

fracture, just how such bones look during the process of healing, and,

therefore, we cannot yet be sure that the skiagraph of an unsuccessful

case is an evidence of unskilfulness on the part of the surgeon.

In diseases of bone, which are obscure, it has already proved of great

advantage, as in a case related by Mr. Abrahams ("British Medical

Journal," February 22, 1896). A lad of nineteen, who had injured his

little finger in catching a cricket ball, had the last joint of the

finger bent at a slight angle, and he could neither flex nor extend it.

Any attempt to do so caused great pain. The diagnosis was made of a

fracture extending into the joint, and that the joint having become

ossified, nothing short of amputation would give relief. Mr. Sydney

Rowland skiagraphed the hand, and showed that there was only a bridge of

bone uniting the last two joints of the finger. An anaesthetic was

administered, and with very little force the bridge of bone was snapped,

the finger saved, and the normal use of the hand restored.

Deformities of bone can be admirably shown. Thus Figure 9 ("British

Medical Journal," February 15, 1896) shows the deformity of the last two

toes of the foot, due to the wearing of tight shoes. (Owing to the

accidental breaking of the plate, only a part of the foot is shown.) The

lady whose foot was thus skiagraphed stated that she had suffered

tortures from her boots, so that walking became a penance, and she even

wanted the toes amputated. Relief was obtained by wearing broad-toed

boots, which gave room for the deformed toes. Another admirable

illustration of a similar use of the method is seen in Figure 2, from a

case of Professor Mosetig in Vienna. The last joint of the great toe was

double the ordinary size, and by touch it was recognized that there were

two bones instead of one. The difficulty was to determine which was the

normal bone, and which the extra bone that ought to be removed. The

moment the skiagraph was taken, it was very clear which bone should be

removed. Bony tumors elsewhere can also be diagnosticated and properly

treated. Possibly, also, we may be able to determine the presence of

dead bone, though I am not aware of any such skiagraphs having been

taken.

[Illustration: FIGURE 8.--SKIAGRAPH OF THE LEFT FOREARM OF A LIVING

SUBJECT, SHOWING AT THE POINT MARKED "B" A DEFORMITY FROM AN OLD

FRACTURE.

(Taken at the State Physical Laboratory, Hamburg, and published in the

"British Medical Journal.")]

Diseases and injuries of the joints will be amenable to examination by

this method. Figure 10 shows an elbow joint with tuberculous disease.

The bones of the arm and forearm are clearly seen, and between them, is

a light area due to granulation-tissue, or to fluid, probably of

tuberculous nature, which is translucent to the rays. The picture

confirms the prior diagnosis of tuberculous disease, and shows that the

joint will have to be opened and treated for the disease. Deposits of

uric acid in gouty diseases of the joints will undoubtedly be shown by

these methods, but this will scarcely be of any help in the treatment.

Whether light will be thrown on other diseases of the joints is a

problem not yet solved.

Analogous to the bony tissues are the so-called ossified (really,

calcified) arteries. In the dead body, arteries filled with substances

opaque to the X rays, such as plaster of Paris or cinnabar mixtures,

have already been skiagraphed successfully. It is not at all improbable

that calcified arteries in the living subject may be equally well shown.

So, too, when we are able to skiagraph through thick tissues, we may be

able to show such deposits in the internal organs of the body. Stones in

various organs, such as the kidney, will be accessible to examination so

soon as our methods have improved sufficiently for us to skiagraph

through the thicker parts of the trunk. The presence of such stones in

the kidney is very often inferential, and it will be a great boon, both

to the surgeon and the patient, if we shall be able to demonstrate

positively their presence by skiagraphy. For the reason already given

(the pelvic bones which surround the bladder), it is doubtful whether we

can make use of it in stone in the bladder. Gall stones, being made not

of lime and other similar salts, as are stones in the kidney and

bladder, but of cholesterine, are, unfortunately, permeable to these

rays; and it is, therefore, doubtful whether the X rays will be of any

service to us in determining their presence.

The chief use of the method up to the present time, besides determining

the diseases, injuries, and abnormities of bone, has been in determining

with absolute accuracy the presence of foreign bodies, especially of

needles, bullets, or shot and glass. It is often extremely difficult to

decide whether a needle is actually present or not. There may be a

little prick of the skin, and no further positive evidence, as the

needle is often imperceptible to touch. The patient, when

cross-questioned, is frequently doubtful whether the needle has not

dropped on the floor; and it might be, in some cases, a serious question

whether an exploratory operation to find a possible needle might not do

more harm than the needle. Moreover, though certainly present, to locate

it exactly is often very difficult; and even after an incision has been

made, though it may be embedded in a hand or foot, it is no easy task to

find it.

[Illustration: FIGURE 9.--SKIAGRAPH OF A HUMAN FOOT, SHOWING THE

DEFORMITY IN THE LAST TWO TOES CAUSED BY TIGHT BOOTS.

(Skiagraphed by Mr. Sydney Rowland, and published in the "British

Medical Journal.")]

The new method is a great step in advance in the line of precision of

diagnosis, and, therefore, of correct treatment. About half a dozen

cases have already been reported in the medical journals in which a

needle was suspected to be in the hand or the foot, and, in some

instances, had been sought for fruitlessly by a surgeon, in which the

use of the X rays demonstrated absolutely, not only its presence, but

its exact location, and it has then been an easy matter to extract it.

So, too, in an equal number of cases, bullets and shot have been

located, even after a prior fruitless search, and have been successfully

extracted. Figure 6 is the skiagraph of the hand of a cadaver which

shows a needle deeply embedded in the thumb, and also two buck-shot,

which were inserted into the palm of the hand through two incisions. It

will be noticed that their denser shadow is seen even _through the

bones_ of the hand themselves, for the hand was skiagraphed palm

downward.

Professor von Bergmann of Berlin has uttered, however, a timely warning

upon this very point. In many cases, after bullets or shot have been

embedded in the tissues for any length of time, they become quite

harmless. They are surrounded with a firm capsule of gristly substance

which renders them inert. In 1863, soon after I graduated in medicine, I

remember very well assisting the late Professor S.D. Gross in extracting

a ball from the leg of a soldier who had been wounded at the Borodino,

during Napoleon's campaign in Russia. It lay in the leg entirely

harmless for almost fifty years, and then became a source of irritation,

and was easily found and removed. There are many veterans of the Civil

War now living with bullets embedded in their bodies which are doing no

harm; and there is not a little danger that in the desire to find and

remove them greater harm may be done by an operation than by letting

them alone.

Glass is, fortunately, quite opaque to the Röntgen rays, and it will be

of great service to the patient, if the surgeon shall be able, by

skiagraphing the hand, to determine positively whether any fragment of

glass still remains in a hand from which it is at least presumed all the

fragments have been extracted. Even after the hand has been dressed, it

is possible, through the dressing, to skiagraph it, and determine the

presence or absence of any such fragments of glass.

[Illustration: FIGURE 10.---SKIAGRAPH OF A SECTION OF A HUMAN ARM,

SHOWING TUBERCULOUS DISEASE OF THE ELBOW-JOINT.

("American Journal of the Medical Sciences," March, 1896.)]

Possibly before long we shall be able to determine also the presence or

absence of solid foreign bodies in the larynx or windpipe. Every now and

then, patients, especially children, get into the windpipe jack-stones,

small tin toys, nails, pins, needles, etc., foreign bodies which may

menace life very seriously. To locate them exactly is very difficult.

The X rays may here be a great help. An attempt has been made by Rowland

and Waggett. to skiagraph such foreign bodies, with encouraging results.

Improvements in our methods will, I think, undoubtedly lead to a

favorable use of the method in these instances. Beans, peas, wooden

toys, and similar foreign bodies, being easily permeable to the rays,

will not probably be discovered.

If our methods improve so that we can skiagraph through the entire body,

it will be very possible to determine the presence and location of

foreign bodies in the stomach and intestines. A large number of cases

are on record in which plates with artificial teeth, knives, forks,

coins, and other such bodies have been swallowed; and the surgeon is

often doubtful, especially if they are small, whether they have remained

in the stomach, or have passed into the intestines, or entirely escaped

from the body. In these cases, too, a caution should be uttered as to

the occasional inadvisability of operating, even should they be located,

for if small they will probably escape without doing any harm. But it

may be possible to look at them from day to day and determine whether or

not they are passing safely through the intestinal canal, or have been

arrested, at any point, and, therefore, whether the surgeon should

interfere. The man who had swallowed a fork which remained in his

stomach (_l'homme a la fourchette_, as he was dubbed in Paris) was

a noted patient, and would have proved an excellent subject for a

skiagraph, had the method then existed.

As sunlight is known to be the foe of bacteria, the hope has been

expressed that the new rays might be a means of destroying the microbes

of consumption and other diseases in the living body. Delépine, Park,

and others have investigated this with a good deal of care. A dozen

different varieties of bacteria have been exposed to the Röntgen rays

for over an hour, but cultures made from the tubes after this exposure

have shown not only that they were not destroyed, but possibly they were

more vigorous than before.

The facts above stated seem to warrant the following conclusions as to

the present value of the method:

_First_.--That deformities, injuries, and diseases of bone can be

readily and accurately diagnosticated by the Röntgen rays; but that the

method at present is limited in its use to the thinner parts of the

body, especially to the hands, forearms, and feet.

_Second_.--That foreign bodies which are opaque to the rays, such

as needles, bullets, and glass, can be accurately located and their

removal facilitated by this means; but that a zeal born of a new

knowledge almost romantic in its character, should not lead us to do

harm by attempting the indiscriminate removal of every such foreign

body. _Non nocere_ (to do no harm) is the first lesson a surgeon

learns.

_Third_.--That at present the internal organs are not accessible to

examination by the X rays for two reasons: First, because many of them

are enclosed in more or less complete bony cases, which cut off the

access of the rays; and, second, because even where not so enclosed, the

thickness of the body, even though it consists only of soft parts, is

such that the rays have not sufficient power of penetration to give us

any information.

_Fourth_.--Even if the rays can be made to permeate the thicker

parts of the body, it is doubtful whether tumors, such as cancers,

sarcoma, fatty tumors, etc., which are as permeable to the rays as the

normal soft parts, can be diagnosticated. Bony tumors, however, can be

readily diagnosticated; and possibly fibrous tumors, by reason of their

density, may cast shadows.

_Fifth_.--That stones in the kidney, bladder, and gall bladder

cannot be diagnosticated, either (1) because they are embedded in such

parts of the body as are too thick to be permeable by the rays, or (2)

are surrounded by the bones of the pelvis, or (3) are, in the case of

gall stones, themselves permeable to the Röntgen rays.

_Sixth_.--That with the improvements which will soon be made in our

methods, and with a better knowledge of the nature of the rays, and

greater ability to make them more effective, we shall be able to

overcome many of the obstacles just stated, and that the method will

then probably prove to be much more widely useful than at present.

[Illustration: FIGURE 11.--SKIAGRAPH OF A HUMAN WRIST WHICH HAD BEEN

DISLOCATED.

From a photograph taken by Mr. Herbert B. Shallenberger, Rochester,

Pennsylvania, and reproduced by his permission. This is a particularly

interesting picture, because it not only shows the bones with unusual

clearness, but also shows that the ulna (the small bone of the forearm)

has been broken; a small projection at its lower end, which ought to

appear, being absent from the bone as shown in the picture.]