On the contrary, I waited for him to come down, but instead of doing so, in a second or two he turned round, clambered deliberately up the cliff and vanished.  I supposed it was only a ruse to extort offers of more money, and waited for half an hour, but he did not appear again.  This was rather embarrassing, for he carried off my knapsack.  The choice of action lay between chasing him and going on to Breuil, risking the loss of my knapsack.  I chose the latter course, and got to Breuil the same evening.  The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a person entirely innocent of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me, and eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already occupied by guides and by hay.  In later years we became good friends, and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance considerable sums.

My sketches from Breuil were made under difficulties; my materials had been carried off, nothing better than fine sugar-paper could be obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more silica than plumbago.  However, they were made, and the pass was again crossed, this time alone.  By the following evening the old woman of Biona again produced the faithless guide.  The knapsack was recovered after the lapse of several hours, and then I poured forth all the terms of abuse and reproach of which I was master.  The man smiled when I called him a liar, and shrugged his shoulders when referred to as a thief, but drew his knife when spoken of as a pig.

The following night was spent at Cormayeur, and the day after I crossed the Col Ferrex to Orsieres, and on the next the Tete Noir to Chamounix.  The Emperor Napoleon arrived the same day, and access to the Mer de Glace was refused to tourists; but, by scrambling along the Plan des Aiguilles, I managed to outwit the guards, and to arrive at the Montanvert as the imperial party was leaving, failing to get to the Jardin the same afternoon, but very nearly succeeding in breaking a leg by dislodging great rocks on the moraine of the glacier.

From Chamounix I went to Geneva, and thence by the Mont Cenis to Turin and to the Vaudois valleys.  A long and weary day had ended when Paesana was reached.  The next morning I passed the little lakes which are the sources of the Po, on my way into France.  The weather was stormy, and misinterpreting the dialect of some natives—­who in reality pointed out the right way—­I missed the track, and found myself under the cliffs of Monte Viso.  A gap that was occasionally seen in the ridge connecting it with the mountains to the east tempted me up, and after a battle with a snow-slope of excessive steepness, I reached the summit.  The scene was extraordinary, and, in my experience, unique.  To the north there was not a particle of mist, and the violent wind coming from that direction blew one back staggering.  But on the side of Italy the valleys were completely filled with dense masses of cloud to a certain level; and here—­where they felt the influence of the wind—­they were cut off as level as the top of a table, the ridges appearing above them.