“Upon the shores of the lake stood the old home of De Stael; and nearly opposite, its white walls reflected upon the bosom of the water the house where Byron lived and wrote.  In the distance we could see the gleaming roofs of Geneva, the dark cathedral, and the tall hotels.  As the weeks wore on I grew stronger.  Winter was coming, and the good pastor must go home.  He would not hear of leaving me, and together we went down into Savoy, and over the ‘mer de glace,’ and trod on the edge of frowning glaciers.

“We were sufficiently near the monastery of the great St. Bernard to take it in our path; toiling along where the ice cracked in the narrow footway, and the moon glittered on the waste of snow and glinted across the dark windows.  Pastor Ortler was at home with the monks, and hardly had we thawed ourselves before the ample fireplace, when a supper was prepared, and over their well-spread tables the monks told stories of travellers lost among the granite heights, with clefts and ledges filled with ice.

“Among the rest, friar Le-Bon gave a description of the ‘Ice Maiden,’ or ’Bride of the Aar,’ said to be seen often when the great glacier of Aar sends out icy breezes, and the echoes ring from rock to rock, as it were the audible voice of God.

“‘Years ago,’ he said, ’a young Englishman and his wife were travelling for scientific purposes; measuring heights, and sounding depths.  They were always accompanied by guides; but now, charmed by the untold splendor, and urged by deep emotion, they climbed higher and higher, regardless of danger.  Twice had the guide called out to them that the very beauty of the day, the sun obscured but not darkened, the softened air, were all favorable to a snowslide or avalanche.

“’Full of life and vivacity, the young wife went on from one point to another, higher and higher; her lithe figure brought out against the sky, as occasionally she plunged her iron-pointed staff deep into the snow, and turned to admire the vast panorama at her feet.  Her husband was making the ascent at a slower pace, looking up to admire the boldness of the little woman, and then playfully scolding her as she stood poised in mid-air so far above him.  Aware of her danger, and fearing to startle her, the guide had ascended, and now stood with the husband on a little ledge quite underneath the cliff on which stood the fearless bride.

“’A moment—­there was a low, murmuring sound, as when the autumn leaves are swept by the evening breeze.  The guide heard it, and his cheek paled.  At the same time a voice was heard above.

“’"What is that, Walter, it seems as though the mountain was moving?”

“’"For heaven’s sake, jump! we will catch you,” shouted the guide.

“’"Quick, Gertrude!” A gleam of white shot over them, and a piercing shriek mingled with one long resounding crash, and the glittering crystal was plunged into the valley below, leaving nothing but bare jagged rocks and stunted shrubs, where all was smooth and white but a moment before.  Months after, the bones of the fair English girl were buried here,’ continued friar Le-Bon.