you have food and
drink in there, Stampa certainly wants both. We all need them. We have
to meet that gale all the way. The two hours may become three before
we reach the path."

Helen guessed the reason of his disdain. It was unjust; but the moment
did not permit of a hint that he was mistaken. To save Bower from
further commitment--which, she was convinced, was due entirely to
regard for her own safety--she went into the hut.

"Stampa," she said, "I am very much obliged to you for taking so much
trouble. I suppose we may eat something before we start?"

"Assuredly, _fraeulein_," he cried. "Am I not here? Were it to begin to
snow at once, I could still bring you unharmed to the chalets."

Josef Barth had borne Stampa's reproaches with surly deference; but he
refused to be degraded in this fashion--before Karl, too, whose tongue
wagged so loosely.

"That is the talk of a foolish boy, not of a man," he cried
wrathfully. "Am I not fitted, then, to take mademoiselle home after
bringing her here?"

"Truly, on a fine day, Josef," was the smiling answer.

"I told monsieur that a _guxe_ was blowing up from the south; so did
Karl; but he would not hearken. _Ma foi!_ I am not to blame." Barth,
on his dignity, introduced a few words of French picked up from the
Chamounix men. He fancied they would awe Stampa, and prove
incidentally how wide was his own experience.

The old guide only laughed. "A nice pair, you and Karl," he shouted.
"Are the voyageurs in your care or not? You told monsieur, indeed! You
ought to have refused to take mademoiselle. That would have settled
the affair, I fancy."

"But this monsieur knows as much about the mountains as any of us. He
might surprise even you, Stampa. He has climbed the Matterhorn from
Zermatt and Breuil. He has come down the rock wall on the Col des
Nantillons. How is one to argue with such a _voyageur_ on this child's
glacier?"

Stampa whistled. "Oh--knows the Matterhorn, does he? What is his
name?"

"Bower," said Helen,--"Mr. Mark Bower."

"What! Say that again, _fraeulein_! Mark Bower? Is that your English
way of putting it?"

Helen attributed Stampa's low hiss to a tardy recognition of Bower's
fame as a mountaineer. Though the hour was noon, the light was feeble.
Veritable thunder clouds had gathered above the mist, and the
expression of Stampa's face was almost hidden in the obscurity of the
hut.

"That is his name," she repeated. "You must have heard of him. He