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Page 18
"Father is old, and besides he is very ill to-day; if you will allow
me I will serve you faithfully."
There was something so frank and truthful, and his words were so well
chosen and showed such cultivation, that even had I feared that he was
unequal to the task I should have taken him.
At this moment his sister came out of the inn, the good woman
following her with a bottle of wine.
"This is for your father, Annette; I hope he will be better
to-morrow."
"I am going," I heard Franz whisper; and taking the wine-bottle, he
left Annette to carry the smaller packages, and turned to us as if
ready to set off.
"You are not to take Annette, are you?" I asked.
"We live halfway up the mountain, and shall pass near the house. We
shall not need our poles till we reach that point."
We did not over-exert ourselves at the outset, casting our eyes over
the green valley, and then up the snowy mountains, sometimes
exchanging a word with Franz, but oftener listening, as he talked in a
low voice to Annette, of what she was to do during the day.
"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."
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