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Updated: June 26, 2025
She was passing through a wicket that protects the footpath across the golf links, when she heard Stampa growl: "Morgen früh!" "Ja!" snapped Bower. She smiled to herself at the thought that things were going to happen to-morrow. She was right. But she had not yet done with the present day.
The girl realized that to a man of his portly build his present attitude was not conducive to speech. It had an additional effect which did not suggest itself to her. The effort thus demanded from heart and lungs might bring back the blood to a face blanched by a deadly fear. Karl was stocked with reminiscences of Stampa.
If Bower cut the rope with a single stroke of the adz, a violent tug at the sundered end would precipitate Stampa headlong into the crevasse, while there would be ample evidence to show that he had himself severed the rope by a miscalculated blow. The fall would surely kill him.
Helen, after her first eager outburst, was tongue tied. She saw that her would-be rescuers were dripping wet, and was amazed that Bower should greet them so curtly, though, to be sure, she believed implicitly that the storm would soon pass. Stampa was already inside the hut. He was haranguing Barth and the porter vehemently, and they were listening with a curious submissiveness.
Bower approached, with a slow, dragging movement. Without a word of protest, he sank to his knees. The snow in his hair began to melt. He passed his hands over his face as though shutting out some horrific vision. Stampa produced from his pocket a frayed and tattered prayer book an Italian edition of the Paroissien Romain. He opened it at a marked page, and began to read the marriage ritual.
"I suppose that is what Stampa meant when he took 'Slow and Sure' for his motto," she said. "Stampa! Who is Stampa?" There was a sudden rasp of iron in his voice. As a rule Bower spoke with a cultivated languor that almost veiled the staccato accents of the man of affairs. Helen was so surprised by this unwarranted clang of anger that she looked at him with wide open eyes.
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.
You found me there, eh?" "Yes." "Well, I wish you luck. I meant to snatch Helen from you, even at the twelfth hour; but Stampa over-reached me. That mock marriage of his contriving had more power than I counted on. Curse it! how these crushed bones are beginning to ache! Give me some brandy. I want to drink Helen's health, and my own, and yours, damn you!
The red blood surged to his temples. Stampa was still smiling. His lips moved in the strangest prayer that ever came from a man's heart. He was actually thanking the Madonna mother of the great peacemaker for having brought his enemy within reach! "Mr. Bower!" came Helen's voice from the door of the cabane. "Why don't you join us? And you, Mr. Spencer? Stampa, come here and eat at once."
He was a famous guide once; but he met with misfortune, and took to carriage work as a means of livelihood. He has damaged his turnout twice this year; so this morning he was dismissed by telephone, and another driver is coming from St. Moritz to take his place." Spencer looked at Stampa. He liked the strong, worn face, with its half wistful, half resigned expression.
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