I finished it off from a flask: and then I got
the sack of corn from the mule's back and
stood upon it for a little time, to keep my feet
out of the water; but I was too cold to feel
any remedy or change. I even thought of a
story I had read years and years ago, of some
one who, overcome by a snow-storm on a
moor in Devonshire, killed his horse, and
cut the body open to get into it; and how
both were found frozen next morning; and
I felt in my pouch to see if I had still got my
knife there.

Suddenly I heard a distant shout! I
answered it, and it was repeated; and the next
minute I saw a light up the pass before me,
rapidly coming down, as it zig-zagged along
the different turns; and, in a few minutes,
Pelleuchord was at my side. So great was the
revulsion of feeling, and my whole chest
fluttered so— I can find no better term— that
I could hardly speak; nor, indeed, do I
clearly recollect how I reached the Convent.
I only remember that when I did get there, I
burst out into a violent, hysterical flood of
tears, and found my old friend, M. Meillan,
the Clavendier, who receives the guests,
embracing me with the most honest delight, as
soon as I was recognised.

He dragged me, thawing and dripping as
I was, into the visitors' room, where a dozen
travellers had just finished supper, amongst
whom, to my great joy, I discovered a member
of my own club, and another friend,
whose pleasant book of adventure is at the
present time being reviewed in the papers.
Those other ladies and gentlemen who were
at the St. Bernard on the tenth of
September last year, may remember how I was
put into a hot-air room to dry; how I was
unable to touch the supper the good monks
provided, from re-action and exhaustion; and
yet how many questions I had to answer.

But they will not be able to describe what
my own feelings were, when I found myself
in my bedroom; or how I expressed my
gratitude for my great deliverance.

It may be added, that, on recollecting we
had told Favret to follow us, Pelleuchord and
another guide started off again, and found
him— mule, baggage, and all— on the very
spot where we had been stopped. The snow
was not this year's,—it was the remainder of
an avalanche that had killed two poor fellows
in the spring; and Meillan showed me their
bodies in the Morgue next morning.

The storm I had encountered was one of
the most violent they had experienced for
years. That same night, it carried away an
entire village, with all its inhabitants, close
to the Fort Bard in the valley of Aosta. The
road, also, was so destroyed, that the Ivrea
diligence could not leave Aosta; and I passed
the spot on foot, two days afterwards,
with the friends alluded to above. Thirty
bodies were then lying crushed and drowned,
in the little church.

I was right about the dog's bark I had
heard. Meillan told me it was that of
"notre jeune chienne Diane." She was the
only one out that night, but did not come
down, as Pelleuchord did not want help when
he had once got a lantern. I may add, that
my excellent friend gave her to me, next
morning, as a souvenir of the occurrence:
and that she is now at home in England.

A SERMON FOR SEPOYS.

WHILE we are still fighting for the
possession of India, benevolent men of various
religious denominations are making their
arrangements for taming the human tigers in
that country by Christian means. Assuming
that this well-meant scheme is not an entirely
hopeless one, it might, perhaps, not be amiss
to preach to the people of India, in the first
instance, out of some of their own books—
or, in other words, to begin the attempt to
purify their minds by referring them to the
excellent moral lessons which they may learn
from their own Oriental literature. Such
lessons exist in the shape of ancient parables,
once addressed to the ancestors of the sepoys,
and still quite sufficient for the purpose of
teaching each man among them his duty
towards his neighbour, before he gets on to
higher things. Here is a specimen of one
of these Oriental apologues. Is there any
reason why it should not be turned to
account, as a familiar introduction to the first
Christian sermon addressed to a pacified native
congregation in the city of Delhi?

In the seventeenth century of the Christian
era, the Emperor Shah Jehan—the wise, the
bountiful, the builder of the new city of
Delhi— saw fit to appoint the pious Vizir,
Gazee Ed Din, to the government of all the
district of Morodabad.

The period of the Vizir's administration
was gratefully acknowledged by the people
whom he governed as the period of the most
precious blessings they had ever enjoyed. He
protected innocence, he honoured learning,
he rewarded industry. He was an object for
the admiration of all eyes, a subject for the
praise of all tongues. But the grateful people
observed, with grief, that the merciful ruler
who made them all happy, was himself never
seen to smile. His time, in the palace, was
passed in mournful solitude. On the few
occasions when he appeared in the public
walks, his face was gloomy, his gait was slow,
his eyes were fixed on the ground. Time
passed, and there was no change in him for
the better. One morning the whole population
was astonished and afflicted by news
that he had resigned the reins of government
and had gone to justify himself before the
emperor at Delhi.

Admitted to the presence of Shah Jehan,
the Vizir made his obeisance, and spoke
these words:—