Up and still up we rode, our poor mules plunging through the snow, our fingers mechanically holding the reins, which felt like icicles within our grasp, our guides rubbing their well-nigh frozen hands, but, fortunately—most fortunately—never becoming confused as to the way.
At length I saw, or thought I saw, through the blinding snow, one of a group of buildings. I chanced to be the foremost in our file of snow-bound travelers, and shouting, "Here it is at last," I hastened toward the structure. No light was visible. No voice responded to my call for help. I pounded on the door and called again. No answer came; but at that moment I felt my arm grasped roughly by my guide. "In Heaven's name," he said, "do not jest on such a night as this."
"Jest!" I rejoined, with chattering teeth, "I have no wish to jest—I am freezing. Where is the boasted hospitality of your lazy monks? Shout! Wake them up!"
"They will not wake," replied the guide. "Why not?" I cried; and beating the door again, I called at the top of my voice: "Au secours! Réveillez-vous! Are you all dead in here?"
[Illustration: A CORRIDOR IN THE HOSPICE.]
It was now my turn to stare at him. "What do you mean?" I faltered. "What—what does this house contain?" "Corpses," was the reply.
It was clear to me in a moment. I had mistaken the dead-house for the house of shelter! In fancy I could see the ghastly spectacle within, where bones of travelers whiten on through centuries in an atmosphere whose purity defies decay.
But, almost simultaneously with his other words, I heard my guide exclaim: "If you too would not join their number, _en avant, en avant, vite, vite_!" Then, seizing the bridle of my mule, he urged me toward the monastery. A few moments more and we arrived within its sheltering walls. One of the brothers helped me to dismount, and led me up the stone steps of the Hospice. And then, how blessed was our reception! How warm the fire blazing on the ample hearth! How good the hot soup and wine instantly brought us by the kind friars! How comforting the thought of our surroundings, as the baffled storm beat against the frost-covered windows, and seemed to shriek with rage at being cheated of its victims!
Never, while memory lasts, shall I cease to remember with love and gratitude those noble-hearted brothers of the St. Bernard.