Chapter 24 - Page 2

companions were still sleeping, stood on the same swell of rock, and their
first inquiries naturally took that direction. The entrance, or outlet to
this hut, was an orifice that resembled a window rather than a door. They
moved cautiously to the spot, looking into the gloomy, cavern-like room,
as timidly as the hare throws his regards about him before he ventures
from his cover. Four human forms were reposing deep in the vault, with
their backs sustained against the walls. They slept profoundly too, for
the curious but startled girls gazed at them long, and retired without
causing them to awake.

"We have not been alone on the mountain in this terrible night," whispered
Adelheid, gently urging the trembling Christine away from the spot; "thou
seest that other travellers have been taking their rest near us; most
probably after perils and fatigues like our own."

Christine drew closer to the side of her more experienced friend, like the
young of the dove hovering near the mother-bird when first venturing from
the nest, and they returned to the refuge they had quitted, for the cold
was still so intense as to render its protection grateful. At the door
they were met by Pierre, the vigilant old man having awakened as soon as
the light crossed his eyes.

"We are not alone here;" said Adelheid, pointing to the other
stone-covered roof--"there are travellers sleeping in yonder building,
too."

"Their sleep will be long, lady;" answered the guide, shaking his head
solemnly. "With two of them it has already lasted a twelvemonth and the
third has slept where you saw him since the fall of the avalanche in the
last days of April."

Adelheid recoiled a step, for his meaning was too plain to be
misunderstood. After looking at her gentle companion, she demanded if
those they had seen were in truth the bodies of travellers who had
perished on the mountain.

"Of no other, lady," returned Pierre, "This hut is for the living--that
for the dead. So near are the two to each other, when men journey on these
wild rocks in winter. I have known him who passed a short and troubled
night here, begin a sleep in the other before the turn of the day that is
not only deep enough, but which will last for ever. One of the three that
thou hast just seen was a guide like myself: he was buried in the falling
snow at the spot where the path leaves the plain of Vélan below us.
Another is a pilgrim that perished in as clear a night as ever shone on
St. Bernard, and merely for having taking a cup too much to cheer his way.
The third is a poor vine-dresser that was coming from Piedmont into our
Swiss valleys to follow his calling, when death overtook