Tells of my ramble with the Gray Meteor and of his singular conduct, and of a discovery which I made. I have seen soldiers suffering from shell shock led across the boulevard in Paris, held by the hand like children. I have seen one, a great, strapping fellow, guided to his seat in a restaurant. I have seen one stand upon the street wringing his hands and sobbing because he did not know which way to go. And no one of these unfortunates that I have ever seen would have ventured out alone upon the most trifling errand. Panic fear of themselves is their most distressing and conspicuous symptom.
Yet here was one of them whose last vestige of stamina seemed to have forsaken him, but who had yet penetrated into these rugged mountain heights. It was not so much the distance from France, as the endless up-and-down distances and winding ways of those Alpine fastnesses which made the thing seem impossible. Apparently he had a half forgotten smattering of some of the primitive outdoor arts and I had won his confidence and aroused some hope and interest in him by promising him a “hike.” But he was no more able to reach this sequestered spot unaided than a baby in arms.
Who, then, had aided him?
Try as I would, I could not persuade him to remain over night at my little inn, the fear of any noise seeming constantly with him, and I let him go, realizing with regret that perhaps he was as well off in his solitude with only the softer voices of nature about him.
But in the morning I was early at his retreat, with high hopes of the little excursion which awaited us. For I had thought that a quiet ramble in those unfrequented places would be a balm and solace to his poor nerves and wavering mind. Little did I dream what that ramble would reveal.
Our path took us through a forest thick with pines of such magnificence as I had never before seen, one as much like another as the pillars of a collonade, and for which this Jura range is famous. I have it from my host that after rainy weather the pungent odor from these pines is actually intoxicating and that wayfarers have been known to slumber under its fragrant influence for several days. I think I shall never again smell the spirit-rousing pungence of a Christmas tree without recalling our memorable ramble in that dim cathedral of the Jura Mountains.
I noticed that the sounds of nature had no such distressing effect upon my companion as did the ruder clamor of human clap-trap, and that he was more at ease in these majestic scenes. Perhaps kind nature, that great physician who asks no fee, had pointed out his solitary cave to him, after the thunderous tumult of the war—I do not know. But in any event he seemed more at ease than I had yet seen him. And I perceived clearly enough then that he was not insane—only that he had lost his grip.
He seemed to take an interest in everything about us and surprised me with the knowledge which he showed of nature and her little oddities. Once he picked up a twig saying that it had grown on the north side of a tree, and again a scrap of rock which he said was sandstone. “They’re all sandstone, these mountains,” he said, or rather asked, as if he were not quite sure of himself and afraid that I would contradict him.
“Yes,” I said. “I guess they’re mostly sandstone,” though, to tell you the truth, they might have been soapstone for all I knew.
Not once did he speak of the war and when I cautiously mentioned it in a casual way he paid no attention. It seemed that he had forgotten all about it—blessed lapse of memory, I thought.
Well, after a while we came upon rough country, like a miniature chain of mountains up there amid those mighty peaks. Here were rocky hollows and no end of little caves and glens—such picturesqueness as I had never seen. They say these caves are filled with the bones of extinct animals and one bleached relic I picked up. But my companion told me that it was only wood. “See,” he said smiling, “it has a grain.”
I think it was the first instance of a genuine smile that I had seen upon his wan countenance.
Presently he kneeled down and examined some mossy earth, and straightway, to my regret, he became greatly excited. We were in a sort of little canon which extended some hundred yards or so and petered out in an area of fairly level forest land where the trees grew sparsely in a rocky soil.
“What is it?” I asked, a bit anxiously.
“See?” he said, standing and placing his heel in the moss. “See?”
“You mean it’s a footprint?” I asked.
“See?” he asked nervously, almost in suspense, as if dreading my reply.
“Surely,” said I; “I dare say others have passed here. We are not so far from the village.”
“It’s mine,” he said. “See?” And ignoring me, he crept along, for all the world as if he had lost something, examining the earth with great concern and increasing satisfaction.
I had never before seen him so interested, and my own interest was aroused, for if he had indeed passed here himself it might afford a clue to something or other—though I did not know what.
“It is only moss,” I said, “and——”
“It’s wax-moss,” he interrupted me with the first sign of assurance he had ever shown. “They stay in wax-moss—See?”
He was now so engrossed with his quest that I could but watch and follow him.
“Have you been here before?” I queried. He gave no heed, but hurried along through the gully until, having gone a hundred feet or more, his will power seemed to collapse and he waited for me, wringing his hands distressingly.
“What is it?” I said.
“It’s over there,” he answered, clutching me in evident terro............