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She could go to and from the cabane in ten hours. Afterward, the Cima di Rosso offered an easy climb; but that meant sleeping at the hut. All of which was excellent advice, though the reflection came that Stampa's "slow and sure" methods were not strongly in evidence some sixteen hours earlier. Now, the Cima di Rosso was in full view at that instant. Helen stopped.
After the guide's story of the previous evening, nothing but Stampa's death or Bower's flight could prevent it. But the woman from the Wellington Theater, how had she come to know of their feud? He was almost tempted to quote the only line of Molière ever heard beyond the shores of France.
If, in his dull mind, he wondered why Spencer came next to Helen, rather than Bower or Stampa, either of whom would know exactly when to give that timely aid with the rope that imparts such confidence to the novice, he said nothing. Stampa's eye was on him. His pride was up in arms. It behooved him to press on at just the right pace, and commit no blunder.
Bower poured out a quantity of wine and drank it at a gulp. He refilled the glass and nearly emptied it a second time. But he touched not a morsel of meat or bread. Helen, fortunately, attributed the conduct of the men to spleen. She ate a sandwich, and found that she was far more ready for a meal than she had imagined. Stampa's broad frame darkened the doorway.
"Attention!" shouted Barth, halting and making a drive at something with his ax. The line stopped. Stampa's ringing voice came over Helen's head: "What is that ahead there?" "A new fall, I think. We ought to leave the moraine a little lower down; but this was not here when we ascended." How either man, Stampa especially, could see anything at all, was beyond the girl's comprehension.
Though Stampa's curious statement had puzzled Helen, she soon hit on the theory that the American must have heard of the accident to her carriage. Yes, that supplied a ready explanation. No doubt he kept a sharp lookout for her on the road. He arrived at the hotel almost simultaneously with herself, and she had not forgotten his somewhat inquiring glance as they stood together on the steps.
Marry her you shall, here and now! I will bind you to her henceforth and for all eternity, and the time will come when her intercession may drag you back from the hell your cruel deed deserves." With a mighty effort, Bower regained the self-conceit that Stampa's words, no less than the depressing environment, had shocked out of him. The grotesque nature of the proposal was a tonic in itself.
"If I had expected any such folly on your part, I should not have come with you," he said, speaking with something of his habitual dignity. "Your suggestion is monstrous. How can I marry a dead woman?" Stampa's expression changed instantly. Its meek sorrow yielded to a ferocity that was appalling. Already bent, he crouched like a wild beast gathering itself for an attack.
Then she thought that Bower must have recalled Stampa's history, and feared that perhaps the outspoken peasant might enter into a piquant account of some village scandal. A chambermaid in the hotel, questioned about Stampa, had told her that the daughter he loved so greatly had committed suicide. Really, she ought to be grateful to her companion for saving her from a passing embarrassment.
It bore an uncanny resemblance to the edges of a grave. He paused, irresolute, unnerved, yet desperately determined to fall in with Stampa's strange mood. "There is nothing to fear," said the old man gently. "They brought her here. You are not afraid you, who clasped her to your breast, and swore you loved her?" Bower's face, deathly pale before, flamed into sudden life. The strain was unbearable.
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