at he finds it, with all the additions,
safely housed at the inn at Turin when he reaches that city himself."

"These, then, are all?" interrupted the Signor Grimaldi, who saw, by the
heaving bosom of Sigismund, that it was time in mercy to interpose.

"Not so, Signore--there is still another and one I like less than any. A
countryman of your own, who, impudently enough, calls himself Il
Maledetto."

"Maso!"

"The very same."

"Honest, courageous Maso, and his noble dog!"

"Signore, you describe the man so well in some things, that I wonder you
know so little of him in others. Maso hath not his equal on the road for
activity and courage, and the beast is second only to our mastiffs of the
convent for the same qualities; but when you speak of the master's
honesty, you speak of that for which the world gives him little credit,
and do great disparagement to the brute, which is much the best of the
two, in this respect."

"This may be true enough," rejoined the Signore Grimaldi, turning
anxiously towards his companions:--"man is a strange compound of good and
evil; his acts when left to natural impulses are so different from what
they become on calculation that one can scarcely answer for a man of
Maso's temperament. We know him to be a most efficient friend, and such a
man would be apt to make a very dangerous enemy! His qualities were not
given to him by halves. And yet we have a strong circumstance in our
favor; for he who hath once done the least service to a fellow-creature
feels a sort of paternity in him he hath saved, and would be little likely
to rob himself of the pleasure of knowing, that there are some of his kind
who owe him a grateful recollection."

This remark was answered by Melchior de Willading in the same spirit, and
the guide, perceiving he was no longer wanted, withdrew.

Soon after, the travellers retired to rest.

Chapter XXI.

As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed,
And winter oft, at eve, resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightful:----

Thomson.

The horn of Pierre Dumont was blowing beneath the windows of the inn of
Martigny, with the peep of dawn. Then followed the appearance of drowsy
domestics, the saddling of unwilling mules, and the loading of baggage. A
few minutes later the little caravan was assembled, for the cavalcade
almost deserved this name, and the whole were in motion for the summits of
the