er
thus. It is because you are Catholic, and believe that the beasts have
no souls."

"It is better to have none than to be a heretic, and the soul burn,"
retorted Innocentina. "I am not hard-hearted. I love my young
Monsieur, and would not see him injured, that is all; while you care
for nothing in the world so much as your old Finois. Ah, I would I had
the _insouciance_ of the _anes_. It is after all that which keeps them
young."

At this we laughed, which annoyed Innocentina so much that she at once
fed to the maligned Fanny a bunch of charming yellow-pink mushrooms
which my prophetic soul told me had been originally intended for her
master's lunch.

Fortunately for us, Joseph--sadly wearing in his buttonhole the
despised cyclamen--discovered a few more of these agreeable little
vegetables, which he tested for our benefit by drawing his sturdy
thumbnail along the stem, showing how the fluted undersurface flushed
red at the touch, while the blood flowed carmine from the wound he
made.

A short rest brought the colour back to the Boy's lips, but we did not
go on again until we had eaten some of the chicken sandwiches which
had been put up for me at the hotel. Climbing had made us hungry,
although we had not been three hours on the way. And we had left the
summer behind, on lower levels; we did not need to remind ourselves
now that it was autumn. By noon we were _en route_ again, but the
brilliance of the day had gone. As we looked back at the world we were
leaving, serrated mountains were dark against flying silver clouds,
and when we neared the Col, a fierce north wind, which had been lying
in wait for us above, swooped down like a great bird of prey. We had
heard it shrieking from afar, but now we had penetrated into its very
eyrie; and as we crept, like flies upon a wall, along the tiny path
which merely roughened the sheer rock precipice, the wind caught and
clawed us with savage glee.

For a wonder, the much-travelled Joseph had never before made the
ascent of Mont Revard, therefore a certain pioneer instinct on which I
pride myself, and yesterday's research in the admirable map of the
Ministry of the Interior, alone gave us guidance. I did not see how we
could have come wrong, yet each moment it appeared that our neglected
path had reached its end, like an unwound tape-measure. Could it be
possible that this broken, ill-mended thread was the clue which would
eventually lead us to the Col de Pertuiset, and