Seated one morning on an easy chair in Susan Quick’s apartment and swinging his little blue legs to and fro in a careless, negligent manner, Gillie White announced it as his opinion that Mister Lewis had gone, or was fast going, mad.

“Why do you think so?” asked Susan, with a smile, looking up for a moment from some portion of Lewis’s nether integuments, which Mont Blanc had riven almost to shreds.

“W’y do I think so?” repeated Gillie; “w’y, cos he’s not content with havin’ busted his boots an’ his clo’se, an’ all but busted hisself, in goin’ to the top o’ Mont Blang an’ Monty Rosa, an’ all the other Monty-thingumbobs about but he’s agoin’ off to day with that queer fish Laycrwa to hunt some where up above the clouds—in among the stars, I fancy—for shamwas.”

“Indeed!” said Susan, with a neat little laugh.

“Yes, indeed. He’s mountain-mad—mad as a Swiss March hare, if not madder—By the way, Susan, wot d’ee think o’ the French?”

Gillie propounded this question with the air of a philosopher.

“D’you mean French people?”

“No; I means the French lingo, as my friend Cappen Wopper calls it.”

“Well, I can’t say that I have thought much about it yet. Missis keeps me so busy that I haven’t time.”

“Ah!” said Gillie, “you’re wastin’ of precious opportoonities, Susan. I’ve bin a-studdyin’ of that lingo myself, now, for three weeks—off and on.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Susan, with an amused glance, “and what do you think of it?”

“Think of it! I think it’s the most outrageous stuff as ever was. The man who first inwented it must ’ave ’ad p’ralersis o’ the brain, besides a bad cold in ’is ’ead, for most o’ the enns an’ gees come tumblin’ through the nose, but only git half out after all, as if the speaker was afraid to let ’em go, lest he shouldn’t git hold of ’em again. There’s that there mountain, now. They can’t call it Mont Blang, with a good strong out-an’-out bang, like a Briton would do, but they catches hold o’ the gee when it’s got about as far as the bridge o’ the nose, half throttles it and shoves it right back, so that you can scarce hear it at all. An’ the best joke is, there ain’t no gee in the word at all!”

“No?” said Susan, in surprise.

“No,” repeated Gillie. “I’ve bin studdyin’ the spellin’ o’ the words in shop-winders an’ posters, an’, would you b’lieve it, they end the word Blang with a c.”

“You don’t say so!”

“Yes I do; an’ how d’ee think they spell the name o’ that feller Laycrwa?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Susan.

“They spells it,” returned Gillie, with a solemn look, “L-e-c-r-o-i-x. Now, if I had spelt it that way, I’d have pronounced it Laycroiks. Wouldn’t you?”

“Well, yes, I think I should,” said Susan.

“It seems to me,” continued Gillie, “that they goes on the plan of spellin’ one way an’ purnouncin’ another—always takin’ care to choose the most difficult way, an’ the most unnatt’ral, so that a feller has no chance to come near it except by corkin’ up one nostril tight, an’ borin’ a small extra hole in the other about half-way up. If you was to mix a sneeze with what you said, an’ paid little or no attention to the sense, p’raps it would be French—but I ain’t sure. I only wish you heard Cappen Wopper hoistin’ French out of hisself as if he was a wessel short-handed, an’ every word was a heavy bale. He’s werry shy about it, is the Cappen, an’ wouldn’t for the world say a word if he thought any one was near; but when he thinks he’s alone with Antoine—that’s our guide, you know—he sometimes lets fly a broadside o’ French that well-nigh takes my breath away.”

The urchin broke into a laugh here at the memory of the Captain’s efforts to master what he styled a furrin’ tongue, but Susan checked him by saying slily, “How could you know, Gillie, if the Captain was alone with Antoine?”

“Oh, don’t you know,” replied Gillie, trying to recover his gravity, “the Cappen he’s wery fond o’ me, and I like to gratify his feelin’s by keepin’ near him. Sometimes I keep so near—under the shadow of his huge calf d’ee see—that he don’t observe me on lookin’ round; an’, thinkin’ he’s all alone, lets fly his French broadsides in a way that a’most sends Antoine on his beam-ends. But Antoine is tough, he is. He gin’rally says, ‘I not un’r’stan’ English ver’ well,’ shakes his head an’ grins, but the Cappen never listens to his answers, bein’ too busy loadin’ and primin’ for another broadside.”

The man to whom he referred cut short the conversation at this point by shouting down the stair:—

“Hallo! Gillie, you powder-monkey, where are my shoes?”

“Here they are, Cappen, all ready; fit to do dooty as a lookin’-glass to shave yerself,” cried the “powder-monkey,” leaping up and leaving the room abruptly.

Gillie’s opinion in regard to the madness of Lewis was shared by several of his friends above stairs. Doctor Lawrence, especially, felt much anxiety about him, having overheard one or two conversations held by the guides on the subject of the young Englishman’s recklessness.

“Really, Lewis,” said the Doctor, on one occasion, “you must listen to a lecture from me, because you are in a measure under my charge.”

“I’m all attention, sir,” said Lewis meekly, as he sat down on the edge of his bed and folded his hands in his lap.

“Well then, to begin,” said the Doctor, with a half-serious smile, “I won’t trouble you with my own opinion, to which you attach no weight—”

“Pardon me, Lawrence, I attach great weight to it—or, rather, it has so much weight that I can scarcely bear it.”

“Just so, and therefore you shan’t have it. But you must admit that the opinion of a good guide is worth something. Now, I heard Antoine Grennon the other day laying down some unquestionable principles to the Professor—”

“What! lecturing the Professor?” interrupted Lewis, “how very presumptuous.”

“He said,” continued the Doctor, “that the dangers connected with the ascent of these Swiss mountains are real, and, unless properly provided against, may become terrible, if not fatal. He instanced your own tendency to go roving about among the glaciers alone. With a comrade or a guide attached to you by a rope there is no danger worth speaking of, but it must be as clear to you as it is to me that it when out on the mountains alone, you step on a snow-covered crevasse and break through, your instant death is inevitable.”

“Yes, but,” objected Lewis, with that unwillingness to be convinced which is one of the chief characteristics of youth, “I always walk, when alone on the glaciers, with the utmost caution, sounding the snow in front of me with the long handle of my axe at every step as I go.”

“If the guides do not find this always a sufficient protection for themselves, by what amazing power of self-sufficiency do you persuade yourself that it is sufficient for you?” demanded Lawrence.

“Your question suffices, Doctor,” said Lewis, laughing; “go on with your lecture, I’m all attention and, and humility.”

“Not my lecture,” retorted Lawrence, “the guide’s. He was very strong, I assure you, on the subject of men going on the high glaciers without a rope, or, which comes to the same thing, alone, and he was not less severe on those who are so foolhardy, or so ignorant, as to cross steep slopes of ice on new-fallen snow. Nothing is easier, the new snow affording such good foothold, as you told us the other day when describing your adventures under the cliffs of Monte Rosa, and yet nothing is more dangerous, says Antoine, for if the snow were to slip, as it is very apt to do, you would be smothered in it, or swept into a crevasse by it. Lives are lost in the Alps every year, I am told, owing to indifference to these two points. The guides say—and their opinions are corroborated by men of science and Alpine experience—that it is dangerous to meddle with any slope exceeding 30 degrees for several days after a heavy fall, and yet it is certain that slopes exceeding this angle are traversed annually by travellers who are ignorant, or reckless, or both. Did you not say that the slope which you crossed the other day was a steeper angle than this, and the snow on it not more than twenty-four hours’ old?”

“Guilty!” exclaimed Lewis, with a sigh.

“I condemn you, then,” said Lawrence, with a smile, “to a continuation of this lecture, and, be assured, the punishment is much lighter than you deserve. Listen:— There are three unavoidable dangers in Alpine climbing—”

“Please don’t be long on each head,” pleaded Lewis, throwing himself back in his bed, while his friend placed the point of each finger of his right hand on a corresponding point of the left, and crossed his legs.

“I won’t. I shall be brief—brief as your life is likely to be if you don’t attend to me. The three dangers are, as I have said, unavoidable; but two of them may be guarded against; the other cannot. First, there is danger from falling rocks. This danger may be styled positive. It hangs over the head like the sword of Damocles. There is no avoiding it except by not climbing at all, for boulders and ice-blocks are perched here, and there, and everywhere, and no one can tell the moment when they shall fall. Secondly, there is danger from crevasses—the danger of tumbling into one when crossing a bridge of snow, and the danger of breaking through a crust of snow which conceals one. This may be called a negative danger. It is reduced to almost nothing if you are tied to your comrade by a rope, and if the leader sounds with his staff as he walks along; but it changes from a negative to a positive danger to the man who is so mad as to go out alone. Thirdly, there is danger from new snow on steep slopes, which is positive if you step on it when recently fallen, and when the slope is very steep; but is negative when you allow sufficient time for it to harden. While, however, it is certain that many deaths occur from these three dangers being neglected, it is equally true that the largest number of accidents which occur in the Alps arise chiefly from momentary indiscretions, from false steps, the result of carelessness or self-confidence, and from men attempting to do what is beyond their powers. Men who are too old for such fatigue, and men who, though young, are not sufficiently strong, usually come to grief. I close my lecture with a quotation from the writings of a celebrated mountaineer—‘In all cases the man rather than the mountain is at fault.’”

“There is truth in what you say,” observed Lewis, rising, with a yawn.

“Nay, but,” returned his friend, seriously, “your mother, who is made very anxious by your reckless expeditions, begged me to impress these truths on you. Will you promise me, like a good fellow, to consider them?”

“I promise,” said Lewis, becoming serious in his turn, and taking his friend’s hand; “but you must not expect sudden perfection to be exemplified in me.—Come, let’s go have a talk with Le Croix about his projected expedition after the chamois.”

Up in the mountains now,—above some of the clouds undoubtedly, almost ’mong the stars, as Gillie put it,—Lewis wanders in company with Baptist Le Croix, half-forgetful of his promise to Lawrence. Below them lies a world of hills and valleys; above towers a fairy-land of ice, cliff, and cloud. No human habitation is near. The only indications of man’s existence are so faint, and so far off in the plains below, that houses are barely visible, and villages look like toys. A sea of cloud floats beneath them, and it is only through gaps in this sea that the terrestrial world is seen. Piercing through it are the more prominent of the Alpine peaks—the dark tremendous obelisk of the Matterhorn towering in one direction, the not less tremendous and far grander head of Mont Blanc looming in another. The sun shines brightly over all, piercing and rendering semi-transparent some of the clouds, gilding the edges and deepening the shadows of others.

“Do you see anything, Le Croix?” asked Lewis, as he reclined on a narrow ledge of rock recovering breath after a fatiguing climb, while his comrade peered intently through a telescope into the recesses of a dark mountain gorge that lay a little below them.

For some moments the hunter made no reply. Presently he closed the glass, and, with an air of satisfaction, said, “Chamois!”

“Where?” asked Lewis, rising eagerly and taking the glass.

Le Croix carefully pointed out the spot but no effort on the part of the inexperienced youth could bring anything resembling the light and graceful form of a chamois into the field of vision.

“Never mind, Le Croix,” he said, quickly returning the glass and picking up his rifle; “come along, let’s have at them.”

“Softly,” returned the hunter; “we must get well to leeward of them before we can venture to approach.”

“Lead where you will; you’ll find me a quiet and unquestioning follower.”

The hunter at once turned, and, descending the mountain by a precipice which was so steep that they had in some places to drop from ledge to ledge, at last gained a position where the light air, that floated but scarce moved the clouds, came direct from the spot where the chamois lay. He then turned and made straight towards them. As they advanced the ground became more rugged and precipitous, so that their progress was unavoidably slow, and rendered more so by the necessity that lay on them of approaching their game without noise.

When they had reached a spot where a sheer precipice appeared to render further progress impossible, the hunter stopped and said in a low tone, “Look, they are too far off; a bullet could not reach them.”

Lewis craned his neck over the cliff, and saw the chamois grazing quietly on a small patch of green that lay among brown rocks below.

“What’s to be done?” he asked anxiously. “Couldn’t we try a long shot?”

“Useless. Your eyes are inexperienced. The distance is greater than you think.”

“What, then, shall we do?”

Le Croix did not answer. He appeared to be revolving some plan in his mind. Turning at last to his companion, he said—

“I counsel that you remain here. It is a place near to which they must pass if driven by some one from below. I will descend.”

“But how descend?” asked Lewis. “I see no path by which even a goat could get down.”

“Leave that to me,” replied the hunter. “Keep perfectly still till you see them within range. Have your rifle ready; do not fire in haste; there will be time for a slow and sure aim. Most bad hunters owe their ill-luck to haste.”

With this advice Le Croix crept quietly round a projecting rock, and, dropping apparently over the precipice, disappeared.

Solitude is suggestive. As long as his companion was with him, Lewis felt careless and easy in mind, but now that he was left alone in one of the wildest and grandest scenes he had yet beheld, he became solemnised, and could not help feeling, that without his guide he would be very helpless in such a place. Being alone in the mountains was not indeed new to him. As we have already said, he had acquired the character of being much too reckless in wandering about by himself; but there was a vast difference between going alone over ground which he had traversed several times with guides in the immediate neighbourhood of Chamouni, and being left in a region to which he had been conducted by paths so intricate, tortuous, and difficult, that the mere effort to trace back in memory even the last few miles of the route confused him.

There was a mysterious stillness, too, about everything around him; and the fogs, which floated in heavy masses above and below, gave a character of changeful wildness to the scenery.

“What a place to get lost in and benighted!” he thought. Then his mind, with that curious capacity for sudden flight, which is one of the chief characteristics of thought, leaped down the precipices, up which he had toiled so slowly, sped away over hill and dale, and landed him in Chamouni at the feet of Nita Horetzki. Once there, he had no desire to move. He kept looking steadily in her pretty face, speculated as to the nature of the charm that rendered it so sweet, wondered what was the cause of the lines of care that at times rippled her smooth white brow, longed to become the sharer of her grief, and her comforter, and pondered the improbability of his ever being in a position to call her Nita—darling Nita—sweetest Nita—exquisite Nita! He was still engaged in creating adjectives at Chamouni when he was brought suddenly back to the Alpine heights by the sound of a shot. It was repeated in a hundred echoes by the surrounding cliffs, as he seized his rifle and gazed over the precipice.

A puff of smoke, hanging like a cloudlet, guided his eyes. Not far in front of it he saw the fawn-like form of a chamois stretched in death upon the ground, while two others were seen bounding with amazing precision and elasticity over the rocks towards him.

He turned at once to an opening among the rocks at his right, for, even to his unpractised eye, it was obviously impossible that anything without wings could approach him in front or at his left.

Coolness and promptitude were characteristics of the youth; so that he sat crouching with the rifle, resting in the palm of his left hand, over one knee, as motionless as if he had been chiselled from the rock against which he leaned; but his natural coolness of deportment could not prevent, though it concealed, a throbbing of anxiety lest the game should pass out of reach, or behind rocks, which would prevent his seeing it. For an instant he half-rose, intending to rush to some more commanding elevation, but remembering the parting advice of Le Croix, he sank down again ............