“And if he dies, Franz!”

“God grant that he may not.”

We had now reached the little cottage, and, laying down her packages, Annette ran to a little shed and brought each of us a long pole furnished with a spike at the end, for which we found abundant use before we returned; she then brought a draught of clear, cold water, gushing out of a rock near by, and, bidding us “God speed,” entered the hut.

Franz was with us, but he had just stopped for a word with his father, and there was a moisture in his eye that came very near calling the tears to our own.  We did not question him then, but going on, we paused occasionally to observe the ruin which had been wrought by many avalanches, while our ears mistook the sound of others for thunder.  Trees uprooted, withered branches and blasted trunks were scattered in every direction, and sometimes a large space was completely cleared by one of these tremendous agents of destruction.

“You have seen the village of Chamouni,” said Franz; “it is said to have been built by a few peasants who escaped an avalanche that occurred on the opposite side of the Arve.”

The higher we ascended the more steep and difficult it became, and more than once did Franz have to turn and teach us how to use our poles, resting the weight of the body upon them, but still inclining the figure to the face of the mountain instead of the valley.  Higher up we came to shoots or rivers of frozen snow; the inclination of the ice being extremely steep and the surface smooth, Franz crossed first, making marks with his pole for our feet.  He then directed us to look neither above nor below us, but only to our feet, for should we fall nothing could save us from sliding down the ice and being dashed against the rocks or the stumps of trees beneath.  Passing the first in safety, we found the next less formidable, while the danger was diminished in proportion to the experience we acquired.

Once over, Franz told us how his father was accustomed to descend the ice shoot; planting his heels firmly in the snow and placing his pole under his right arm and leaning the entire weight of his body upon it he came down with the swiftness of an arrow, his body almost in a sitting posture, his heels and the spiked end of his pole alone touching the ice and deeply indenting it.

“It happened,” said Franz, “that my father was showing a small company of travellers to the summit, when a sudden fancy seized one of them to make the descent in that way.  My father expostulated, and told him that it required practice and skill, that but few of the guides would undertake it.  He would not be deterred, feeling, as he said, sure that he could do anything performed by another.  Seeing that he was determined, my father helped him to adjust his pole, and then shut his eyes.”

“And what then?” I asked, as Franz stopped and looked in the direction of the Mer de Glace.

“There was no help for him,” said Franz; “he was buried at the foot of the mountain.”