average; but then it is continuous— a ceaseless
pull against the collar for nearly twenty-four
miles. The difficulties encountered here by
Napoleon in transporting his artillery, when
he crossed the Alps in eighteen hundred, were
equal to those in the famous forest of St.
Pierre, two or three hours below.

The world appeared to close behind us as
we mounted the first ridge; and the storm
redoubled its fury in the gorge—so much so,
that, at one time, the mule could scarcely make
head against it. It was now about half-past
six; but the lightning continued vivid enough
to show us the track clearly enough; and the
water was pouring down so fast from the
heights, that we were really walking up small
cascades all the way, the route, such as it
was, affording the readiest channel. Nothing
occurred for an hour, until we reached the
dreary dead-house, and the neighbouring
refuge— two low stone-huts at the side of
the path; one affording the rudest shelter,
and the other forming a depository for the
bones of travellers lost, from time to time,
upon the pass. These must not be
confounded with the actual Morgue, near the
Convent, where the bodies are now placed.
When the weather is very bad, the servant
of the Convent comes down as far as this
point in the afternoon, to see if any assistance
is needed; and, if the snow is deep on the
pass, then it is that the services of the dogs
are most valuable. They scent out the way,
and find a track where a false step to the
right or the left would be fatal; the drift
making path and precipice all smooth alike.
This, after all, is their chief use; and the
monks themselves repudiate the romantic
stories told about them.

Beyond this point our troubles commenced.
The lightning ceased, and the rain was
gradually turning into a cutting sleet. For
half an hour or more, we groped our way as
well as we could, both being tolerably
acquainted with the ground, as I have stated;
but, on arriving at the Pont d'Hudri, which
is a mere slab of stone about the size of a
Turkish hearth-rug, over a thundering
torrent, I did not think it safe to ride any
further. So I got off, and we sent the mule
on first, which was a good notion; for her life
had been passed in going up and down the
pass; and she knew every hole she had to
put her foot into, and every block she had to
step over.

We went on— I cannot say in silence, for
the roar of the storm and the water
combined was almost deafening, but without
speaking to one another, until suddenly the
mule stopped and turned round, and we
found we were upon hard snow. We could only
tell this by our feet, for it was now too dark
for even the refraction of the white surface.

"What is to be done, now? " I asked of
Pelleuchord.

"Mais, Monsieur, je ne sais pas," was the
reply; " faut retrouver la route." (Really, I
don't know, sir; we must find out the road
again.)

But to go back was out of the question.
Presently the man said,

"We cannot stay here, sir."

"And we can't go on."

"One must stop with the mule, and the
other must see if he can reach the Convent.
It is not twenty minutes ahead of us."

Either alternative was dreary enough. At
last we decided that I should remain with the
mule, and Pelleuchord should try if there was
a chance of getting some assistance. He
crunched over the snow for a few steps, and
then his footfall was lost in the noise of the
rain and sleet and the torrents.

For the first ten minutes or so, I did not much
care. I got to the leeward of the mule, which
kept a little of the cutting drift from me, and,
sticking my baton into the snow as firmly as
I could, tied the halter round it. But before
long I got very cold. I did not dare move;
for I heard rushing water on every side of
me— it was even running over the surface of
the snow against my feet. And then, as one
drearily prolonged minute crept on after
another, I thought, " What will become of
me, if Pelleuchord should not come back?"

I have twice in my life known what it is
to expect immediate death. I have had the
muzzles of three or four loaded guns touching
my head at the same time; and I have
been falling, in a ruptured balloon, from
a height of several thousand feet; my
state of feeling, in each case, was that of a
dead, almost preternatural calm, which I
never could account for: but the agony of
mind I now endured was too great to
portray, apart from what would appear a
carefully-built exaggeration. I knew, that with
my feet freezing, and ice hanging about my
beard and moustaches, on the very edge of
the Alpine level of perpetual snow, and
entirely unable to move a foot from where I
was, this state of things could not last long;
that I should gradually become drowsy, without
the power to rouse myself; and that my
body would be found next morning, stark
and dead, by the first people who came down
from the Convent. Much else that I thought
about I do not care here to mention; but,
through all, the most ridiculous and commonplace
ideas would keep thrusting themselves,
even to the roar of the water accommodating
itself, in time, to the words of stupid songs; and
a thought that, with the ice about my face I
must have looked like a picture of Christmas
I had seen somewhere in an illustrated paper.

I was in this terrible position more than
half an hour. Several times I shouted as
loud as I could; but my voice was nothing
against the wind that was tearing down from
the south-west; in fact, it was carried away
from the Hospice. Once I heard the dogs,
and my heart beat as it it would have come
through my ribs; but the bark was not
repeated. I had a little brandy with me, and