Bower poured out a quantity of wine and drank it at a gulp. He refilled the glass and nearly emptied it a second time. But he touched not a morsel of meat or bread. Helen, fortunately, attributed the conduct of the men to spleen. She ate a sandwich, and found that she was far more ready for a meal than she had imagined.
Stampa’s broad frame darkened the doorway. He told Karl not to burden himself with anything save the cutlery. Now that he was the skilled guide again, the leader in whom they trusted, his worn face was animated and his voice eager.
Helen heard Spencer’s exclamation without.
“By Jove, Stampa! you are right! Here comes the snow.”
“Quick, quick!” cried Stampa. “Vorwärtz, Barth. You lead. Stop at my call. Karl next—then the fräulein and my monsieur. Yours follows, and I come last.”
“No, no!” burst out Bower, lowering a third glass of wine from his lips.
“Che diavolo! It shall be as I have said!” shouted Stampa, with an imperious gesture. Helen remarked it; but things were being done and said that were inexplicable. Even Bower was silenced.
“Are we to be roped, then?” growled Barth.
“Have you never crossed ice during a snow storm?” asked Stampa.