digenous to the southern valleys of Monte Rosa,
but of which I here succeeded in finding one or
two indifferent specimens. It was a wild and
barren district, difficult to distinguish with any
degree of precision on the map; but lying
among the upper defiles of the Val de Bagnes,
between the Mount Pleureur and the Grand
Combin. On the waste of rock-strewn moss to
which I had climbed, there was no sign of
human habitation. Above me, lay the great
ice-fields of Corbassière, surmounted by the silver
summits of the Graffenière and Combin. To my
left, the sun was going down rapidly behind a
forest of smaller peaks, the highest of which, as
well as I could judge from Osterwald's map, was
the Mont Blanc de Cheilon. In ten minutes
more, those peaks would be crimson; in one
short half hour, it would be night.

To be benighted on an Alpine plateau towards
the latter end of September is not a desirable
position. I knew it by recent experience, and
had no wish to repeat the experiment. I therefore
began retracing my route as rapidly as I
could, descending in a north-westerly direction,
and keeping a sharp look-out for any châlet
that might offer a shelter for the night. Pushing
forward thus, I found myself presently at
the head of a little verdant ravine, channelled,
as it were, in the face of the plateau. I
hesitated. It seemed, through the gathering
darkness, as if I could discern vague traces of a
path trampled here and there in the deep grass.
It also seemed as if the ravine trended down
towards the upper pastures which were my
destination. By following it I could scarcely go
wrong. Where there is grass, there are generally
cattle and a châlet; and I might possibly find a
nearer resting-place than I had anticipated. At
all events, I resolved to try it.

The ravine proved shorter than I had
expected, and, instead of leading immediately
downward, opened upon a second plateau,
through which a well-worn footway struck off
abruptly to the left. Pursuing this footway
with what speed I might, I came, in the
course of a few more minutes, to a sudden
slope, at the bottom of which, in a basin almost
surrounded by gigantic limestone cliffs, lay a
small dark lake, a few fields, and a châlet. The
rose-tints had by this time come and gone, and
the snow had put on that ghostly grey which
precedes the dark. Before I could descend the
slope, skirt the lake, and mount the little
eminence on which the house stood, sheltered by
its background of rocks, it was already night,
and the stars were in the sky.

I went up to the door, and knocked; no one
answered. I opened the door; all was dark. I
paused—held my breath—listened—fancied I
could distinguish a low sound, as of some one
breathing. I knocked again. My second knock
was followed by a quick noise, like the pushing
back of a chair, and a man's voice said,
hoarsely:

"Who is there?"

"A traveller," I replied, " seeking shelter for
the night."

A heavy footstep crossed the floor, a sharp
flash shot through the darkness, and I saw, by
the flickering of tinder, a man's face bending
over a lantern. Having lighted it, he said, with
scarce a glance towards the door, " Enter,
traveller," and went back to his stool beside the
empty hearth.

I entered. The châlet was of a better sort
than those usually found at so great an altitude,
consisting of a dairy and houseplace, with a loft
overhead. A table and three or four wooden
stools occupied the centre of the room. The
rafters were hung with bunches of dried herbs,
and long strings of Indian corn. A clock
ticked in a corner; a kind of rude pallet upon
trestles stood in a recess beside the fireplace;
and through a lattice, at the further end, I
could hear the cows feeding in the outhouse
beyond.

Somewhat perplexed by the manner of my
reception, I unstrapped my knapsack and
specimen-box, took possession of the nearest stool,
and asked if I could have supper?

My host looked up, with the air of a man
intent on other things. I repeated the inquiry.

"Yes," he said, wearily; " you can eat,
traveller."

With this, he crossed to the other side of the
hearth, stooped over a dark object which until
now I had not observed, crouched in the corner,
and muttered a word or two of unintelligible
patois. The object moaned; lifted up a white
bewildered woman's face; and rose slowly from
the floor. The herdsman pointed to the table,
and went back to his stool and his former
attitude. The woman, after pausing helplessly,
as if in the effort to remember something, went
out into the dairy, came back with a brown loaf
and a pan of milk, and set them before me on
the table.

As long as I live, I shall never forget the
expression of that woman's face. She was young,
and very pretty; but her beauty seemed turned
to stone. Every feature bore the seal of an
unspeakable terror. Every gesture was
mechanical. In the lines that furrowed her brow,
there was a haggardness more terrible than the
haggardness of age. In the locking of her lips,
there was an anguish beyond the utterance of
words. Though she served me, I do not think
she saw me. There was no recognition in her
eyes; no apparent consciousness of any object
or circumstance external to the secret of her
own despair. All this, I noticed during the
few brief moments in which she brought me my
supper. That done, she crept away, abjectly,
into the same dark corner, and sank down again:
a mere huddled heap of clothing.

As for her husband, there was something
unnatural in the singular immobility of his
attitude. There he sat, his body bent forward, his
chin resting on his palms, his eyes staring
fixedly at the blackened hearth, and not even
the involuntary quiver of a nerve to show that
he lived and breathed. I could not determine
his age, analyse and observe his features as I
might. He looked old enough to be fifty, and