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 25, 1863.] arguments as to the chance of the whole party having reached the shelter of stone walls before the danger grew imminent. And it was manifest now, even to the most careless or unpractised eye. The white web had turned grey, then leaden-coloured, then inky black. A cold and fierce wind came in short puffs, like the gasping respirations of a dying giant, down the gullies of the mountain. In the distance was heard a hollow, indescribable sound, something between the boom of the far-off sea and the notes of an Æolian harp.

“The Stürm-stimme! the storm-voice itself. A sure sign!” growled the old peasant from Uri, who now stood at my elbow, with his son at his side, both men leaning on their spiked mountain staves. I glanced keenly at the old man. He looked rather self-satisfied, as if proud of the sagacity he had shown; but over this vanity was visible a sort of grim solemnity, as if the matter were too serious for vulgar boasting. The sunburned face of the younger man was pale, and his bold blue eyes roved to and fro, scanning mountain, sky, and valley, with the scrutiny of one well used to tempest and peril.

I nudged Maurice with my elbow, and hurriedly whispered that if a guide were wanted, we had the very man before us. At first, when we proposed to the young peasant to accompany us in our perilous quest among the crags, the old farmer scouted the idea with absolute rudeness. But money will do anything with these hard-fisted dwellers among the high Alps, and money ultimately prevailed. The bribe was high, but Maurice was wild with passionate eagerness to depart, and, but for me, would have offered his last louis-d’or for a guide. The bargain was struck.

“You’ve a first-rate cragsman in my son, Englishman,” observed the aged farmer, half sadly, half vauntingly, as we returned to the inn to provide some few necessaries, spirit-flasks, ropes, mountain poles, and so forth, for the enterprise; “a first-rate cragsman. Not a lad in this canton can match my Fritz. Didn’t he bring home the lost sheep, through a tourmente, from Urseren, the night neighbour Hans was smothered in the drift? A chamois hunter, too, and of the best, and he took the eggs of the great lammergeier from a rock seven hundred feet high, and slippery as glass, when—”

“Hush! father! better keep your breath to pray for our coming back with a whole skin. It’s not the gold would tempt me, but for the thought of the poor creatures yonder,” said the young mountaineer, as he hastily accoutred himself for the start.

By this time the sky was dark, flecked here and there by pale clouds hurrying by, and the shrieks of the wind were piercing, but no snow or rain had yet fallen.

The excitable people of Airolo were all out in the streets, talking in low anxious tones, and many of the women were weeping. There was now no doubt that a storm, doubly dangerous in that season of avalanches, was at hand; and when the church bells began to toll, a confusion of cries, murmurs, and groans swelled up from the crowd. The curé of the village appeared at the church door in his vestments, as for some office of religion; and at the words, “Pray, my children, pray for the souls of those who are about to die!” the people fell on their knees, and it was impossible to hear the sobs and see the outstretched hands of the simple beings around us without feeling deep emotion.

“I must start. If I stop, I shall go mad,” cried Maurice, fiercely.

The young guide added “Amen!” and

“Ay, go, go!” cried the old farmer, who had probably heard more of the gossip of the crowd than I had; “five minutes more, and they will be holding you back by force. Go. An Uri man has but his word; the money is paid, and the work must be done; but, Fritz, child, remember thy old mother at home, and do not let me go back alone to the hills.”

A minute more, and we were straining every muscle and nerve in the swift ascent of the St. Gothard.

For a considerable distance we pursued the spiral twists of the noble road, but presently, by Fritz’s directions, we struck into a footpath known to him, and which would, he assured us, prove a short cut. The work was severe. The ground was rough, the hills steep, and the obstacles continual. But on we went, struggling through bushes, scrambling over slippery stones, and often plunging waist deep into treacherous banks of snow. Fritz proved a good guide, daring, kindly, and prudent, and but for his strong arm and accurate knowledge of the way, we must have succumbed within the first league.

As it was, bruised, panting, wet, with clothes torn by the brambles and cut by the loose pieces of shale and mica that rattled under our tread, on we pressed. Again and again did Maurice eagerly reiterate the question, was there a chance that the caravan had reached shelter ere the signs of a storm were plainly perceptible? Fritz shook his head. It was, he said, a bad job. They would be past the Hospice long before the sky darkened, and yet there had been no time to gain the village of Hospenthal, much less Andermatt. No doubt there was great danger, but with the blessing of the saints an experienced mountaineer might yet do some good by counsel and aid. Then on we pushed again.

The fatigue as we crossed the lofty summits of the St. Gothard was such as I had never dreamed of, and such as nothing but excitement such as ours could have supported. We were often obliged to stop and gasp for breath, and by the guide’s advice we uncorked our brandy-flasks and drank enough to counteract the numbing effects of cold and lassitude. The cold was intense now in those high regions, and the wind was as sharp as a knife. A few lazy flakes of snow came whirling down. Suddenly we came out upon the broad carriage-road. The marks of sleigh-runners, of horses’ hoofs and men’s feet, were stamped into the white crust. Fritz fell on his knees, and examined the prints like a Red Indian on the war trail.

“They passed an hour ago; weary, but not frightened, for see how steadily they have kept the order of their column. We shall catch them,