University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE STRANGER.

Perhaps the thoughts of the young vine-dresser
of Val d'Orazio did not run into such unlimited
speculations as these, into which we have
been led by the suggestions of past existence,
awakened through the singularity of attention
with which the stranger regarded Valentine.
Indeed, there was little time allowed the youth
for metaphysical indulgence, inasmuch as he
was called upon to listen to the very business-like
words which reached his ear.

“I am in want of a guide over the mountains,
and as the good Nicolo here cannot conduct me
farther than beyond the second pass, it is necessary
that another should accompany us, to continue
with me the route. I am recommended to
make my choice of one of you.”

Berthold here broke in abruptly, though with
no vehemence of manner. “I know every foot
of these mountains, my lord,” said he—“ay,
for that matter the routes are alike familiar to
me, from the French passes to the Salzion
Alps.”

“Ay, then, thou must fain have travelled considerably
in thy life-time?” said the stranger,
transferring his keen glance to the elder brother.
“Doubtless, the pass of the Boccheta is likewise
well-known to thee?”

“I have skipped over its snow-drifts a dozen
times perhaps. Nay, good fathers of St. Bernard,
they know me well, my lord, and from this valley
to the glaciers of Tyrol, there is no place I have
not footed, save only the White Mountain
itself.”

“Thou hast not, then, ascended Mont
Blanc?”

“For reason, my lord, that the guides of
Chamouny are jealous of us who dwell near the
French borders, and mislike our conducting
travellers with full purses, and generous withal,
as my lord himself is.”

As Berthold said this, he made a grotesque
attempt to smile graciously, to show the earnestness
of his compliment. But his flattery seemed
to produce upon the stranger an effect quite
contrary to that intended; for the latter turned
abruptly from Berthold, and resuming his survey
of Valentine, said, in an affable tone:

“In spite of thy brother's experience, and the
scene in which I beheld thee engaged as I entered,
I am disposed to trust thee for a guide sooner
than he who has traversed all the Alps to
the Swiss summits. What sayest, young man?
Canst guide me to the Boccheta?”

“Valentine has been there thrice,” here interposed
Monna Barbara, who had remained silent
in her corner till this moment. “He will lead
my lord safely.”

The stranger started suddenly, as the first

tones of the old woman's shrill voice reached his
ear, and he peered into the smoky nook where
Monna Barbara had ensconced herself. The
crone had half-risen, and was eagerly stretching
forward her long neck, disclosing the shrivelled
face, bright eyes, and white teeth in the flickering
glare of the burning embers on the hearth.
Never, perhaps, had this old mother presented a
more witch-like appearance than at this moment,
and it was doubtless no wonder that the tall
stranger should start and change color at the
almost unearthly apparition, accompanied with
the sudden tones of a cracked voice. He quickly
recovered himself, however, in discovering
that the crone was the mother of the young men,
though he could not help feeling a very uncommon
sensation thrill through his frame as
he encountered the look which Monna Barbara
cast at him.

“Valentine will conduct you safely, signore,”
repeated the old woman; “to the Boccheta, to
the Simplon, to Mount St. Gothard—to the
Tyrol Alps, if it like you, where the boy first
drew mortal breath.”

“He was born in Switzerland, then, good
mother?” said the stranger, interrogatively.

“Both of them, signore, and stretched their first
legs where the eagles build their nests, and the
wild goat suckles its kids. Never fear, signore,
but Valentine will lead you safe, though the slides
be not far distant, as I know full well, by the
moanings to-night.”

“The moanings, good mother? What be
those?”

“I hear things, and see things, that young
ears and young eyes may wait long for,” answered
the crone, energetically. Old Nicolo,
however, who had listened in silence to the
colloquy, now interposed with an explanation.

“Monna Barbara, it is well-known, signore,
can tell when the slides are about to change.
She thinks she can hear the huge masses of snow
sinking in the clefts and gullies, with a great
smothered sound, like to some one moaning in
pain.”

“And who says me nay?” cried the old woman,
sharply. “Did I not bid Jacopo Landi
flee away from his house, when the fool and his
family were sleeping soundly, and the avalanche
trembling above them. He laughed at Monna
Barbara forsooth, and what came of it? Where
was his house, and himself and his wife, at the
daybreak?”

“It is very true,” replied old Nicolo, solemn
ly. “I did not gainsay your knowledge, good
Monna—for well I know that the goatherd Piero
Bembo owed his safety to your timely warning,
which he did not make light of, like Jacopo.”

The crone seemed satisfied by this admission
of the old guide, and drew back to her nook
without speaking, whilst the stranger tapping
Valentine lightly, said:

“Get thee ready, youth, then, for our journey.
I would fain be many miles hence before sunrise.”

Valentine looked at the speaker with a grateful
smile, which added much interest to his
naturally pleasing countenance. But as he proceeded
hastily to array himself for the road, he
heard Berthold mutter to the stranger:

“Take heed the youth's pleasant face deceive
you not, signore.”

“I require no judgment but mine own, good
fellow,” replied the keen-eyed traveller, as he
turned towards the door. Nicolo was about to
follow, when Berthold, concealing his resentment
at the contempt with which he was evidently
regarded, detained the old guide, addressing
him, with one of his low laughs:

“What think you, Nicolo, raised the fiend to-night
in my good brother yonder?”

“I care not for the cause,” returned the hunter.
“It is a shame for both of you!”

“Nevertheless, I'll make bold to tell you,”
said Berthold, not in the least abashed by the
new rebuff. “I will tell you, out of friendship,
that you may keep watch of your household.”

“What mean you by that, young man?” asked
Nicolo, pausing at once, to listen to what Berthold
had to say.

“I mean this,” returned the other, in a blunt
way, like an honest man, desirous of making
short work of an unpleasant duty—“I mean,
that it was because I mentioned the name of
your grand-child, Bianca, and for no other reason,
that this hot-blooded young man quarrelled
with me.”

“And what said you of Bianca?” asked Nicolo,
quickly.

“I but rated the stripling for his boast that
he loved the maiden,” returned Berthold, with
his cold laugh. “And moreover, I ventured to
hint that a poor lad like himself, stood little
chance in your favor, against all the young farmers
of the valley—not to speak of the intendant
of the castle, and, maybe, the padrone, for
that matter. Such things have been!”

“Peace, young man! What idle tale is this?”
exclaimed the old guide. “Well—what more
would you say? If it be true the boy loves
Bianca—”

“Ay—it is true! I do love her!” here suddenly
interrupted the impetuous Valentine, who
had overheard the last words of Nicolo, and now
rushed forward. “From my heart do I love that
gentle maiden,” repeated he, clasping the hunter's
hand in his own.

Nicolo appeared for a moment lost in amazement;
then he exclaimed, in a sharp tone:

“You are crazy! The child has not been
reared for such as you! Hold thy peace, I pray
thee!”

With this speech, Nicolo shook off the young
man's hand impatiently. Valentine turned away,
a half-choked exclamation of angry feeling upon
his lips, the flush of sudden indignation mantling
his face.

“Take care, Nicolo!” said Berthold, whispering
to the old guide, but loud enough for his
brother to hear—“take care! the young cub
will not forget this slight.”

“No, Berthold! I shall not,” murmured
Valentine, with difficulty striving to preserve a
calmness. “The time will come,” continued he,
turning toward the old hunter—“when you,
Nicolo, shall repent your words!”

The guide shrugged his shoulders, and moved
to the door, without which, during this scene,
the stranger in the mantle had been waiting.
Then, Nicolo leading the way, the three took
their departure from the hut.

Berthold watched their figures till they disappeared
in the gloom, and then, returning to
the fireside, vented his vexation in a curse at the
poor mother, who had tremblingly resumed her
preparations for supper.