Finished, the Prior reached for a flask of brandy that the Clavandier had brought from his stores. He forced a few drops between Jean's lips, waited a moment, then gave the injured man a few more drops.
Jean's eyelids fluttered. He turned his head to one side and moaned. Then he opened his eyes and stared blankly. The Prior knelt before him with a small glass of brandy. He cradled Jean's head with one arm.
"Drink," he said.
Jean sipped slowly, and as he did the color returned to his face and the life to his eyes. He nibbled his own lips. Then the shock faded and he returned to the world of rational beings. His eyes found Franz, and an agony that was born of no physical pain twisted his face.
"We came to see you, Franz," he said in a husky whisper, "and I was the guide. Alas, I was a very poor guide, for the one who engaged me still lies in the snow!"
"It was not your fault," the Prior soothed. "No man can foresee an avalanche."
Franz's heart turned over. For none but the most important of reasons would anyone have set out from Dornblatt to visit him in St. Bernard Pass. Were either of his parents or one of his sisters lost in the snow and not found? Were they beset by some terrible illness? Were—?
"I know there was a message," Jean continued, "but I was not the one who carried it."
"Who was the message from?" Franz burst out.
Jean said, "It was from Emil Gottschalk."