went back, as if fascinated; and so stood for
some moments, unable to move, to think, to do
anything but stare helplessly upon the scene
before me. To this day, I cannot recal it without
something of the same sickening sensation.

Inside that hut, by the light of a pine-torch
thrust into an iron sconce against the wall, I
saw the herdsman kneeling by the body of his
wife; grieving over her, like another Othello;
kissing her white lips, wiping blood-stains from
her yellow hair, raving out inarticulate cries
of passionate remorse, and calling down all the
curses of Heaven upon his own head, and that
of some other man who had brought this crime
upon him! I understood it all now—all the
mystery, all the terror, all the despair. She
had sinned against him, and he had slain her.
She was quite dead. The very knife, with its
hideous testimony fresh upon the blade, lay near
the door.

I turned and fled—blindly, wildly, like a man
with bloodhounds on his track; now, stumbling
over stones; now, torn by briars; now, pausing
a moment to take breath; now, rushing forward
faster than before; now, battling up-hill with
straining lungs and trembling limbs; now,
staggering across a level space; now, making for
the higher ground again, and casting never a
glance behind! At length I reached a bare
plateau above the line of vegetation, where I
dropped exhausted. Here I lay for a long
time, beaten and stupified, until the intense
cold of approaching dawn forced upon me the
necessity of action. I rose, and looked round
on a scene no feature of which was familiar
to me. The very snow-peaks, though I knew
they must be the same, looked unlike the
peaks of yesterday. The very glaciers, seen
from a different point of view, assumed new
forms, as if on purpose to baffle me. Thus
perplexed, I had no resource but to climb the
nearest height from which it was probable that
a general view might be obtained. I did so,
just as the last belt of purple mist turned
golden in the east, and the sun rose.

A superb panorama lay stretched before me,
peak beyond peak, glacier beyond glacier, valley
and pine forest and pasture slope, all flushed
and palpitating in the crimson vapours of the
dawn. Here and there, I could trace the foam
of a waterfall, or the silver thread of a torrent;
here and there, the canopy of faint blue smoke
that wavered upward from some hamlet among
the hills. Suddenly my eyes fell upon a little
lake—a sullen pool—lying in the shade of an
amphitheatre of rocks some eight hundred feet
below. Until that moment, the night and its
terrors appeared to have passed away like a
wicked vision; but now the very sky seemed
darkened above me. Yes—there it all lay at my
feet. Yonder was the path by which I had
descended from the plateau, and, lower still,
the accursed châlet, with its background of
rugged cliff and overhanging precipice. Well
might they lie in shadow! Well might the
sunlight refuse to touch the ripples of that lake
with gold, and to light up the windows of that
house with an illumination direct from heaven!

Thus standing, thus looking down, I became
aware of a strange sound—a sound singularly
distinct, but far away—a sound sharper and
hollower than the fall of an avalanche, and
unlike anything that I remembered to have
heard. While I was yet asking myself what
it could be, or whence it came, I saw a
considerable fragment of rock detach itself from one
of the heights overhanging the lake, bound
rapidly from ledge to ledge, and fall, with a
heavy plash, into the water below. It was
followed by a cloud of dust, and a prolonged
reverberation, like the rolling of distant thunder.
Next moment, a dark fissure sprang into sight
all down the face of the precipice—the fissure
became a chasm—the whole cliff wavered before
my eyes—wavered, parted, sent up a cataract
of earth and stones—and slid slowly down,
down, down into the valley.

Deafened by the crash, and blinded by the
dust, I covered my face with my hands, and
anticipated instant destruction. The echoes,
however, died away, and were succeeded by a
solemn silence. The plateau on which I stood,
remained firm and unshaken. I looked up. The
sun was shining as serenely, the landscape
sleeping as peacefully, as before. Nothing was
changed, save that a wide white scar now
defaced all one side of the great limestone basin
below, and a ghastly mound of ruin filled the
valley at its foot. Beneath that mound, lay
buried all record of the crime to which I had
been an unwilling witness. The very mountains
had come down and covered it—nature had
obliterated it from the face of the Alpine solitude.
Lake and châlet, victim and executioner, had
disappeared for ever, and the place thereof knew
them no more.

Now ready, price FOURPENCE,
SOMEBODY'S LUGGAGE.
FORMING
THE EXTRA DOUBLE NUMBER
FOR CHRISTMAS.
CONTENTS: His Leaving it till called for. His Boots.
His Umbrella. His Black Bag. His Writing-Desk. His
Dressing-Case. His Brown-Paper Parcel. His Portmanteau
His Hat-Box. His Wonderful End.

Early in January NO NAME will be completed; when
a New Story by the Authoress of " MARY BARTON" will be
commenced, entitled
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.
This will be followed, in March, by a New Serial Work
of Fiction by
CHARLES READE, D.C.L.,
Author of " IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."

NO NAME,
By WILKIE COLLINS,
In Three Volumes, is now ready.
SAMPSON LOW, SON, and Co., Ludgate-hill.