University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE AVALANCHE.

The midnight moonbeams silvered all the
mountain peaks and craggy summits, and cast
white lustre on the sides of great precipices, and
penetrated far into deep chasms, out of which
came up sullenly the roar of hidden whirlpools.
Over rocks and toppling clifts, and broad plateaus,
was spread the crusted mantle of snows
gathered during many winters.

A narrow, perilous path wound under the
brow of a huge wall of rock, adown whose slanting
sides the glaciers appeared always as if about
to slide upon the vales beneath. These glaciers
glittered dazzlingly in the moonlight, like mites
of shining mirrors. So narrow was the path below
the summit of this mass of rock, that in many
places the close-united feet of a mule might
scarcely find a resting-place, whilst here and
there some wide gap suddenly revealed the darkness
of an awful gulf dividing even this secureless
causeway. But, at the extremity of the
glaciered wall, the way widened into an oval
space, beyond which led a comparatively safe
avenue to the village lying nearest to Val d'Orazio,
on the road to the French passes. In the
middle of the oval space alluded to, arose a
pyramidal structure of rough stones, to which
tradition assigned some terrible interest, as marking
the scene of a bloody tragedy which had
taken place during the old religious wars. This
pile of stones bore among the mountaineers the
name of “Huguenots' Altar.”

Here, with their figures largely outlined in the
moonlight, stood the three persons who had set
out at nightfall from Nicolo's cottage. The old
guide, attracted by the beauty of the night, and
more by the conversation of the stranger, who
was a man of varied experience and acquirements,
as evident from his speech, had been
drawn over the mountain route farther than was
his original intention; and now he still lingered,
holding the traveller's hand as if loth to part
from so agreeable a companion. The younger
guide stood a few paces in advance, leaning upon
his pole, and holding on his left arm the heavy
furred mantle of the stranger, who, in the animation
of his walk, had preferred to wear only his
thick paletot, which was bound, like the cloak,
with rich sable.

Valentine, as he thus stood, could not but regard
admiringly the majestic figure of the traveller,
his symmetric proportions and graceful
bearing. At the same time he recalled to his
thoughts how old Nicolo had been completely
won by his companion's discourse during the
long mountain walk, and the young lover could
not refrain from a sigh, and a wish—that he
might learn some powerful method to ingratiate
himself so speedily into the good opinion of
Bianca's grandsire.

Thus the three stood near the triangular “Huguenots'
Altar,” their forms plainly visible for
many miles around, so transparent is the atmosphere
in these wintry regions. Consequently
their every movement was quite apparent to a
party of men who had been following closely in
their track for some time back, and who had
now paused, just concealed by the jutting rocks
which formed one side of the pass at its termination
in the oval area where the travellers now
were separating. This party, as the reader
must suspect, was the band of Captain Tomaso,
and the old brigand himself, hidden by the
withered branches of a gnarled tree which overlooked
his contemplated prize, from behind the
cliffs, was near enough to distinguish the parting
words spoken by the stranger to Nicolo.
He peered cautiously from his concealment,
meditating a method of securing and disarming
the traveller and his guide Valentine, without
doing bodily injury to either; and he awaited
the separation of Nicolo from the other two, in
order that less difficulty might be encountered in
carrying out his project.

“Addio il mio caio, signore,” said the aged guide,
warmly pressing the traveller's hand. “I shall
probably no more encounter you, but an old
man's blessing hurts not. Therefore, signore,
Dio vi benedica!”

“Thanks, my worthy friend. The benediction
of an honest man is not to be slighted!”
answered the stranger, returning the grasp of
Nicolo's hand. And thus for an instant, the two
remained looking at each other.

At this juncture, a low muttering was heard
as if proceeding from a point far above in the
mountain—a sound which produced an immediate
effect on the elder and younger guide, for
they both started, and looked at one another
with changing countenances.

A huge mass of rock towered many hundred
feet upward behind the “Huguenots' Altar.”
The steep sides of this, forming a lofty wall,
were in many parts crusted with glittering ice,
whilst other portions exhibited wide belts of
the rocky strata. Upward, now, straining their
glances toward the summit of this wall, the
guides directed their faces, listening at the same
time to that mysterious sound which, rivetting
their attention, seemed to grow more and more
distinctly audible.

“It is the avalanche!” suddenly exclaimed
Nicolo, in a hoarse tone. “Haste for your lives
to the pass!”

Then, still holding firmly to the traveller's
hand, the brave old hunter-guide turned in the
direction of the gap immediately opposite to the
pass through which they had entered the oval
theatre—which gap conducted at once to a winding
road leading to the next village.

Valentine, on his part, as he felt the certainty
that a mountain slide was approaching, felt likewise
his thoughts centering upon the cottage
where Bianca awaited her grand-father's return;
and, with an undefined impulse, instead of following
his companions, he rushed suddenly upward
toward the defile which he had lately traversed,
casting but one hasty glance, as he ran,
toward the two who were hurrying to the lower
gap. At the same moment, looking upward, he
discerned, instead of the clear stars that a moment
before shone calmly over the scene, a great
could-like form of loose and flying snow. Well
he knew that a fearful slide was driving this
cloud before it, and with redoubled speed, he
strove to gain the sheltered pass—one word upon
his quivering lips—“Bianca!”

But a rush as of the sweeping of a myriad
wings now filled the darkened air, and a thick
mist of sharply-biting particles of snow encompassed
him on every side. The youth felt himself
lifted, as by a whirlwind, and as he struggled
through the heavy gloom, and gained the narrow
opening of the pass, his ears were stricken
by a noise like the roar of artillery, shaking the
hills and rolling deafeningly adown the valleys.
Then the whirlwind of scattered snow raised
the hunter bodily in its embrace, and bore him,
wrapped in icy drifts, far into the pass which
he had striven to gain. Still clinging to his
tough pole, he was hurled forward and upward
on the rising billowy drifts, until, at length, he
fell prostrate, breathless and insensible, beaten
down, but saved, by the upward pressure of the
overwhelming sea of snow, which, after outspreading
on the area below, burying the “Huguenots'
Altar,” and the oval space around, had
then enlarged itself, and dashed through the
mountain passes.

The fearful roar which had presaged the event
deepened as the avalanche crashed downward in
the pass beneath, and then, from vast depths in
the valleys, and from the distant defiles of the
hills, came answering voices of uproar, as if all
the elements were exultant over their mighty
manifestation. But Valentine the young hunter,
heard not this awful symphony of nature,
for he lay stretched unconscious across his iron

pole, his form half-buried in the drifts which had
preserved him from being swept downward in
the bosom of the great slide.

Far up, the atmosphere remained thick with
snow; the moon was darkened, and dense shadows
mingled with the sleety clouds. Long did
this agitation continue, and when, an hour after
the passage of the avalanche, the youth Valentine
opened his eyes and recognized that he was
thus almost miraculously saved from destruction,
the mass of fallen slides had not yet subsided
into immobility.

The hunter with difficulty, by the help of his
staff, extricated his benumbed limbs from the
snow, and steadying himself cautiously upon the
surface of the mass, advanced a few paces to the
opening of the pass. Here he found the drift
more compact, it having been forced together, by
the rapidity of its descent, and jammed into the
narrow oval space before mentioned. From this
point Valentine surveyed the change that had
taken place since he last beheld his companions.

No trace of the triangular pile of stones that
formed the “Huguenots' Altar” was now to be
discovered. The space it had occupied presented
only an unbroken plain of snow, piled up at
the mouth of the upper pass where Valentine
stood, and at the gap immediately opposite, near
which, doubtless, Nicolo and the stranger had
been overwhelmed in their downward flight.

A sickening pang shot through the young
man's breast at the thought that such was the
fate of the stranger whose noble form he had
lately surveyed so admiringly, as well as of the
grand-father of the being who of all others living,
he loved best. But Valentine was a resolute
mountaineer, accustomed to act promptly in
emergencies. A bare possibility existed, that, as
Providence had preserved his own life in so remarkable
a manner, its power might have likewise
operated to preserve the lives of his companions.
So, fixing his pole firmly in the settling
snows, he ventured forward from the pass
into the plateau beneath. The surface gave
way but slightly to his weight, and gaining confidence
as he advanced, he proceeded across the
intervening space toward the lower gap.

But when he reached that opening, and gazed
down the broadening path that formed the road
to the next village, he could discover, in the
clear moonlight that now again irradiated the
scene no vestige of any object which might
awaken his hopes. The slide had forced its
mighty way through this aperture, and thence
descended far below, in a long stretch of motionless
white, reflecting the moonbeams, covering
entirely what before had been the valley route.

Valentine paused, sadly contemplating the
silent waste. Where now were the strongly-knit
form, the symmetric limbs, which he had
almost envied in the stranger? Where—O,
where was the aged Nicolo—the guardian of his
Bianca?

But suddenly a gleam of joy shot from the
young man's eyes, for he caught a glimpse of
some dark object protruding from the snow, and
with hurried steps he advanced toward it. It was
Nicolo's iron pole, slanting out from a huge drift,
near the mouth of the gulch, and just beneath
the precipice of rock that formed its corner abutment.
A moment more, and his vigorous hands
had dashed aside the snow, and disclosed the
hand and arm of the old hunter, the rest of
whose form was wholly buried. Valentine drew
the shoulders upward, and discovered that Nicolo's
hand was still clinging to the pole, as he lay
upon his back, his face upward, and near the surface
of the drift which had covered him. The
features were set and rigid as in death, but the
youth fancied, as he stooped beside him, that he
felt the breath still warm upon the old man's
lips. Hastily exerting himself to extricate the
hunter's limbs, Valentine at once essayed to restore
the animation so long suspended.

But poor Nicolo's frame was evidently chilled
throughout. His white hair and beard were
encrusted with sleet, and his garments were so
stiffened, that it was with great difficulty the
strong hands of the youth could remove the icy
fastenings of the leather doublet which he wore.
Valentine well-nigh despaired of the presence of
any life, when, after violent manipulation of the
limbs and breast of the old hunter, he could feel
no return of warmth to the body. Nevertheless,
he slackened not his energy, and at length was
overjoyed to hear an almost inaudible moan attest
that his friend was still a living man. He
redoubled his efforts, until the old man's eyes
opened, and his lips moved feebly as if to
speak.

“It is I, Nicolo—you are saved!” murmured
the youth.

The old guide's feeble glance fell on his
preserver without apparent recognition, and the
eyelids closed once more, with the reflux of
drooping life. Again Valentine strove, and with
still greater earnestness, to retain the almost
expiring spark of spirit which yet clung to its

earthly frame. He chafed the bosom and limbs,
drew the old man's form to his own warm embrace,
and at last, recalling to his recollection the
flask of strong liquor always carried by the Alpine
hunters, to be used on occasions like this,
he drew it hastily from his pouch, and applied
it to Nicolo's lips. But still only occasional
moans, as if from inward pain, answered his continued
efforts, and Valentine at length decided to
convey, if possible, the aged man to the cottage
on the other declivity of the mountain. It was
a bold resolution, and required arduous strength
to accomplish it; but the youth felt that it offered
the better chance to preserve his friend, and
therefore, lifting him at once in his arms, he began
slowly with his burthen, to retrace his steps
to the upper pass.

It was about an equal distance from the “Huguenots'
Altar,” to either of the villages lying in
the neighboring valleys; but the young guide
knew that, after such a heavy slide, the narrow
upland path toward his own village would be
easier to traverse than that into which the greater
weight of the avalanche had been precipitated.
Bearing, therefore, the old hunter, he crossed
cautiously to the opposite opening, and toiled
his way through the loose snow that filled it.

Gaining the spot where he himself had been
overwhelmed, and so providentially preserved,
Valentine discovered, half-buried in the drift
that costly mantle of sable furs, which had hung
across his own arm at the moment when first
appeared the avalanche's approach. Torn from
his possession by the same billow of snow that
had borne him on its crest to safety, the stranger's
cloak now again met his gaze, uninjured
by the blow which had swept away its hapless
owner. The youth gladly availed himself of
the ample folds of this rich garment, to envelope
the chilled form of Nicolo, after which he made
one more attempt to awaken the old hunter to
at least a consciousness of present security.
But again nought but the low moans replied to
his exertions; so, with his drooping burthen,
Valentine staggered through the snow, ascending
the mountain path.

And as he glanced for an instant backward
over the white waste, he thought sadly of that
stranger whose fate had been so sudden and terrible.
But the thought of Bianca stole likewise
to his heart, and amid all the perils he had escaped,
he rejoiced in the hope that he should yet
save her grandsire.

“Then,” murmured poor Valentine, “then,
perchance he will repent his harsh refusal.”