“I did, herr. Nobody uses this pass. There is no need. It is very difficult, and leads away up to the everlasting snow.”
“Then, Melchior, how is it that the stones are worn so much?”
The guide shook his head.
“It is as if a river had run along here,” he said. “I suppose it is the rain that has slowly worn it so.”
“No,” said Dale, with the voice of authority, “it is the ice.”
“No, herr; there is no ice here. A great deal of snow comes down from the great stock up yonder, and from the valley between Piz Accio and Piz Nero, here on the right—avalanches of snow. We could not walk along here in March; it would be madness. But it soon wastes, and is washed away.”
“No, Melchior, it is not snow or water that has smoothed all this, but ice. There must have been a huge glacier all along here.”
The guide shook his head.
“Look, man,” cried Dale, “it is written on the stones;” and he pointed to those beneath them, and then to others high up, which presented the same appearance.
“The stones and rocks are worn smooth, herr; but I never heard my father or grandfather speak of ice in this valley.”