“My litter is here? Why?”
“Hush! For the sake of Madame. Your companion of that day—”
“What of him?”
The man looks at his comrade, and his comrade takes him up. Each keeps his hand laid earnestly on Vendale’s breast.
“He had been living at the first Refuge, monsieur, for some days. The weather was now good, now bad.”
“Yes?”
“He arrived at our Hospice the day before yesterday, and, having refreshed himself with sleep on the floor before the fire, wrapped in his cloak, was resolute to go on, before dark, to the next Hospice. He had a great fear of that part of the way, and thought it would be worse to-morrow.”
“Yes?”
“He went on alone. He had passed the gallery when an avalanche—like that which fell behind you near the Bridge of the Ganther—”
“Killed him?”