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Though he had vowed that never again would he utter a syllable to his love that was not transparently true, how could he tell her then that Stampa was stretched lifeless on the broad bosom of Corvatsch, and that the Italians were carrying Bower, crushed and raving in delirium, to the hut. "An Englishman and his guide, I am sorry to say," was his prepared reply.
Bartelommeo took the telescope in his turn and evidently agreed with the leading guide. "A party has fallen on Corvatsch," said Pietro gravely. "Two men are clinging to a ledge. It is not a bad place; but they cannot move. They must be injured, and there may be others below." "Let us go to their assistance," said Spencer instantly. "Per certo, sigñor. That is the law of the hills. But the sigñora?
If I had crossed the Muretto, I should not be lame to-day; but I took Corvatsch in my path, and I fell, and when I saw Etta's grave the grass was growing on it. Come! The turf is sixteen years old now." Breaking off thus abruptly, he swung away into the open pasture. Bower, heavy with wrath and care, strode close behind.
"You really ought not to talk about it," said Spencer soothingly. "Why not? He brought me there to kill me, he said. The cunning old fox told me that I would find Helen in the Mortel hut, and offered to take me to her by a short cut over Corvatsch. And I believed him! I was mad, I suppose. We did the Marmoré ascent by the light of the stars. Do you realize what that means?
The giant mass of Corvatsch was associated in his mind with the girl's last glimpse of her beloved Switzerland, while on that same memorable day it threw its deep shadow over his own life. He turned to the mountain to seek its testimony, as it were, to the consummation of a tragedy. But Millicent could not know that.
Stampa was buried in the grave that held his daughter's remains. Spencer purchased the space for a suitable monument, and the inscription does not fail to record the fact that one of the men who first conquered the Matterhorn had paid tribute to the mountains by meeting his death on Corvatsch. The American went many times to visit Bower at the Roseg inn.
Its fragrant vivacity was ready to burst forth at the first encouraging hint of a kindlier temperature. "Why that dubious clause as to the weather?" asked Helen, looking at the golden shafts of sunlight on the topmost crags of Corvatsch and the Piz della Margna.
Could she not have reproduced from memory a fairly complete map of the valley, with its villages, mountains, and lakes clearly marked? But she would not on any account repress the man's enthusiasm, and her eager acceptance of his quaint information induced fresh efforts, with more whip waving. "Piz Corvatsch! Him ver' big fellow. Twelf t'ousen foots. W'en me guide him bruk ze leg."
"Most certainly, fräulein. My father helped him to build the first hut on the Hörnli Ridge." "Old Stampa!" chimed in Karl from beneath. "It will be long ere he is forgotten. I was one of four who carried him down from Corvatsch to Sils-Maria the day after he fell. He was making the descent by night, a mad thing to do, and there was murder in his heart, they said. But I never believed it.
The summit of the lordly Corvatsch seemed to be absurdly near. She judged it within the scope of an easy walk between breakfast and afternoon tea from the hotel on a tree covered peninsula that stretched far out into Lake Sils-Maria, and she wondered why anyone should fall and break his leg during such a simple climb.
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