The snow lay deep on the Roseg, and roping was essential, though Pietro undertook to avoid any difficult crevasses. He led, Spencer followed, with Helen next, and Bartelommeo last. They reached the opposite moraine in half an hour, and began to climb steadily. The rock which looked so forbidding from the hut was by no means steep and not at all dangerous. They had plenty of time, and often stopped to admire the magnificent vistas of the Val Roseg and the Bernina range that were gradually unfolding before their eyes. Soon they were on a level with the hut, the Alpine palace that had permitted their first embrace.
“When we make our next trip to St. Moritz, Helen, we must seek out the finest and biggest photograph of the Mortel that money can buy,” said Spencer.
Helen was standing a little above him on a broad ledge. Her hand was resting on his shoulder.
“Oh, look!” she cried suddenly, pointing with her alpenstock to the massive mountain wall that rose above the cabane. A few stones had fallen above a widespread snow slope. The stones started an avalanche, and the roar of the tremendous cascade of snow and rock was distinctly audible.
Pietro uttered an exclamation, and hastily unslung a telescope. He said something in a low tone to Bartelommeo; but Spencer and Helen grasped its meaning.
The girl’s eyes dilated with terror. “There has been an accident!” she whispered. Bartelommeo took the telescope in his turn and evidently agreed with the leading guide.
“A party has fallen on Corvatsch,” said Pietro gravely. “Two men are clinging to a ledge. It is not a bad place; but they cannot move. They must be injured, and there may be others—below.”
“Let us go to their assistance,” said Spencer instantly.
“Per certo, sigñor. That is the law of the hills. But the sigñora? What of her?”
“She will remain at the hut.”