ust have looked once
at the top of old Corvatsch. She thought of me, I am sure, for she had
my letter in her pocket telling her that I was at Pontresina with my
voyageurs. And she would think of you too,--her lover, her promised
husband."

Bower cleared his throat. He tried to frame a denial; but Stampa waved
the unspoken thought aside.

"Surely you told her you would marry her, Herr Baron?" he said gently.
"Was it not to implore you to keep your vow that she journeyed all the
way from Zermatt to the Maloja? She was but a child, an innocent and
frightened child, and you should not have been so brutal when she came
to you in the hotel. Ah, well! It is all ended and done with now. It
is said the Madonna gives her most powerful aid to young girls who
seek from her Son the mercy they were denied on earth. And my Etta has
been dead sixteen long years,--long enough for her sin to be cleansed
by the fire of Purgatory. Perhaps to-day, when justice is done to her
at last, she may be admitted to Paradise. Who can tell? I would ask
the priest; but he would bid me not question the ways of Providence."

At last Bower found his voice. "Etta is at peace," he muttered. "We
have suffered for our folly--both of us. I--I could not marry her. It
was impossible."

Stampa did look at him then,--such a look as the old Roman may have
cast on the man who caused him to slay his loved daughter. Yet, when
he spoke, his words were measured, almost reverent. "Not impossible,
Marcus Bower. Nothing is impossible to God, and He ordained that you
should marry my Etta."

"I tell you----" began Bower huskily; but the other silenced him with
a gesture.

"They took her to the inn,--they are kind people who live there,--and
someone telegraphed to me. The news went to Zermatt, and back to
Pontresina. I was high up in the Bernina with my party. But a friend
found me, and I ran like a madman over ice and rock in the foolish
belief that if only I held my little girl in my arms I should kiss her
back to life again. I took the line of a bird. 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. He strove to
keep his brain intent on the one issue,--to placate this sorrowing old
man, to per