o, herr," said the guide, spreading the contents of the wallet on the
rocks in the sunshine. "The weather changes quickly up these mountains.
Look! yonder the mists are gathering already."

He pointed to the clouds hanging round the nearest peak, as they sat
down and ate with mountaineers' appetites, till, just as they were
ending, Melchior rose--rather excitedly for him.

"Look!" he said, pointing: "you do not often see that."

He pointed to where the landscape, with its peaks and vales, was blotted
out by a peculiar-looking sunlit haze, in which were curious, misty,
luminous bodies; and as they looked, there, each moment growing more
distinct, were three gigantic human figures, whose aspect, in his highly
strained state, seemed awful to one of the lookers-on.

"Change of weather, Melchior," said Dale.

"Perhaps, herr; but I think we shall have plenty of time to get down
first."

"What is it?" said Saxe, whose eyes were fixed upon the strange
apparition.

"Only our reflections on the face of that mist," said Dale. "Lift up
your alpenstock and wave it."

Saxe did so, and the central giant did the same.

"Both hands."

This was imitated, and every other movement, in a weird fashion that was
impressive as it was startling.

"It is only one of Nature's own looking-glasses," said Dale laughingly.

"But there are some of our people who look upon it as a warning," said
the guide gravely. "They say it signifies that those who see it will
soon die in the mountains."

Saxe turned pale. He was in such an exalted condition, mentally as well
as bodily, that the slightest thing threatened to upset him; and at the
guide's words a profound sensation of horror attacked him, making him
feel utterly unnerved:

"They had all those dreadful places to descend."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A MOUNTAIN MIST.

"Hah!" ejaculated Dale, as he watched the strange phenomenon; "people
will talk superstitious nonsense and believe in ghost stories, portents
and other old women's tales. But don't you take any notice of them,
Saxe. They will not do for Englishmen. Why, you have no faith in such
things, Melchior?"

"Not much, herr," said the guide, smiling: "I have seen the `spectre of
the Brocken,' as people call it, twenty times at least. But I do fear
mists."

"Yes; those are real dangers. And you think we shall have them here!"

"Yes, herr. I should like us to descend at once. We can do nothing in
a fog."

"Come alo