Soon afterwards we recommenced our ascent to the summit, trudging through patches of melted snow. For about half an hour we continued our rough climb, when he halted, and, scanning the mountain cautiously, said—
“Come, follow me quickly!”
“Where?” I asked. “This surely is not the road to Lanslebourg?”
“Do not argue, but come with me,” he said impatiently. “If you do not, it will be the worse for you!” he muttered between his teeth.
Linking his arm in mine, he half dragged me along to what appeared to be the face of a perpendicular rock. We passed along a narrow passage behind a great boulder, and as we did so, my strange guide gave a shrill whistle.
In a moment a cunningly-concealed door in the face of the rock opened and a wild-haired, black-bearded, brigandish-looking man emerged.
I was alarmed, for I saw I had been entrapped.
My guide uttered a few words in the Piedmontese patois, which I did not understand, whereupon the man who had opened the door exclaimed—
“The signore Inglese will please enter.”
I hesitated, but I saw that to refuse was useless, so together we went into a large dark cavern. The bolt of the door was shot back into its socket with an ominous sound, while our footsteps echoed weirdly through the distant recesses. The man took up a torch and guided us through intricate turnings, until at last we came to a door which he opened, and we found ourselves in a small natural chamber, with wonderful stalactites hanging from the roof.