Grimshaw winced, for he had never had success with animals.  Then, with a sudden change of mood, he stooped and caressed the dog’s head.

“A good fellow,” he said in French to the goatherd.

The goatherd looked at him curiously.  “Not always,” he answered.  “He is an unpleasant beast with most strangers.  For you, he seems to have taken a fancy....  What have you got there—­any two-bladed knives?”

Grimshaw started and recovered himself with:  “Knives.  Yes.  All sorts.”

The goatherd fingered his collection, trying the blades on his broad thumb.

“You come from France,” he said.

Grimshaw nodded.  “From Lyons.”

“I thought so.  You speak French like a gentleman.”

Grimshaw shrugged.  “That is usual in Lyons.”

The peasant paid for the knife he fancied, placing two francs in the poet’s palm.  Then he whistled to the dog and set off after his flock.  But the dog, whining and trembling, followed Grimshaw, and would not be shaken off until Grimshaw had pelted him with small stones.  I think the poet was strangely flattered by this encounter.  He passed through Salvan with his head in the air, challenging recognition.  But there was no recognition.  The guide who had said “The tall monsieur will not arrive” now greeted him with a fraternal:  “How is trade?”

“Very good, thanks,” Grimshaw said.

Beyond the village he quickened his pace, and easing the load on his back by putting his hands under the leather straps, he swung toward Finhaut.  Behind him he heard the faint ringing of the church bells in Salvan.  Waram had reported the “tragedy.”  Grimshaw could fancy the excitement—­the priest hurrying toward the “wall” with his crucifix in his hands; the barber, a-quiver with morbid excitement; the stolid guide, not at all surprised, rather gratified, preparing to make the descent to recover the body of that “tall monsieur” who had, after all, “arrived.”  The telegraph wires were already humming with the message.  In a few hours Dagmar would know.

He laughed aloud.  The white road spun beneath him.  His hands, pressed against his body by the weight of the leather straps, were hot and wet; he could feel the loud beating of his heart.

His senses were acute; he had never before felt with such gratification the warmth of the sun or known the ecstasy of motion.  He saw every flower in the roadbank, every small glacial brook, every new conformation of the snow clouds hanging above the ragged peaks of the Argentieres.  He sniffed with delight the pungent wind from off the glaciers, the short, warm puffs of grass-scented air from the fields in the Valley of Trient.  He noticed the flight of birds, the lazy swinging of pine boughs, the rainbow spray of waterfalls.  Once he shouted and ran, mad with exuberance.  Again he flung himself down by the roadside and, lying on his back, sang outrageous songs and laughed and slapped his breast with both hands.