“The man lost on the mountain was his grandson,” said the pastor.
“Strange things happen in a lifetime,” mumbled the gardener. “Now who would believe, to look at me, that I was once the champion wrestler of the village!”...
The next morning at sunrise the pastor knocked at Angela’s door.
“Angela, we are going ‘up there’ today.”
During the summer, when they were pasturing the cattle, she and the pastor spent many a happy time with the peasant boys and girls who had gone up in June, clinging gradually from one plateau to another until they reached the top, where they would stay until the weather drove them down.
Angela sprang joyfully out of bed and went to fetch her basket; on the way up she would look for herbs. It was wonderful how she spied the rare plants hid away under the rocks and at the bottom of brooks. They went slowly, at first, Angela timing her steps to the pastor’s, who grasped his stick, gaining strength as he climbed. Not far behind, a guide followed, carrying the belongings of the unfortunate man. In Switzerland every waterfall, river, flower, bush, and tree has its legendary Spirit. Miracle stories come down by word of mouth. The old grandmother sitting outside the châlet at night, a pipe between her toothless gums, her needle running a race with her tongue, tells the children of the wonders of the mountains:
“In the old days, when a mountaineer had been lost on the heights, the peasants would go from peak to peak calling his name. Where the echo repeated they stopped, and would throw down articles of clothing and a large cheese from the milk of the missing man’s herd, to keep his spirit from cold and starvation. They tell of a peasant who was lost. They let down his dog on a rope. The faithful animal, whining in low dog tones, eagerly scented the way. When they drew up the rope it was bitten through. The dog had found the body of his master and would not leave him. Whenever there is a thick mist the peasant is seen, his dog beside him, on the edge of the chasm, pointing with a warning finger to the precipice.”...
The merry band of dairy workers welcomed the pastor with shrill cries and clarion notes from Alpine horns. It was a modest community; each one owned his little herd. There were many huts, where the milk is set in earthen bowls, yielding cream, butter, cheese, their only wealth. The pastor drew a herdsman aside and spoke to him in low tones. A stillness fell on the merry band. The man led them across the field to a deep pool fed by mountain torrents; at a narrow end was a rough rustic bridge, which they crossed in single file, and came into a thick pine grove. Farther on, the clearing was carpeted with roses, anemones, violets. They walked carefully, not to crush them; then they climbed up a steep rock to a cow-hut on the top.
Angela gave a low cry. A man lay on a bed of hay, his arm in a rough splinter, his face the wax of death. She dropped down beside him, listened to his heart, tried to raise his closed lids.
“He is dead.”