Chapter II: Part 2

The chamois climbed from their hidden valleys to their true home among the peaks, birds returned, cattle departed for lofty summer pastures, farmers toiled from dawn to dark--and Father Paul came to visit the Halles.

He arrived while the family was at the evening meal, for during this very busy season there was almost no other time when all members of a family might be together. Franz's father rose to welcome him.

"Father Paul! Do accept my chair and join us!"

"No, thank you." Father Paul waved a hand and smiled. "I have already supped and this fine chair of the Alps shall serve me very well."

Father Paul chose a block of wood from the pile beside the stove, upended it, and seated himself. The elder Halle took back his chair and resumed his interrupted meal.

"I have just returned from Martigny, where I visited Emil Gottschalk," Father Paul said. "He is greatly improved, and he seems reconciled to the loss of one of his feet."

"To lose a foot is a bad thing," the elder Halle said seriously.

"But it might have been much worse," Father Paul pointed out. "Were it not for Franz and Caesar, Emil would have lost his life, too."

"I did nothing," Franz murmured.

He stared hard at his plate, remembering. Both of Emil's feet were frozen, and there'd been nothing for it except to take him to the hospital at Martigny. He'd been there ever since, and, while Franz was glad that he would live rather than die, any credit for saving him belonged properly to Caesar. Franz had his own vexing problem.

Finding Emil Gottschalk had made him a person of no small importance in Dornblatt. But why be important when not even his own father would trust him with any task except cutting wood, and everybody in Dornblatt had long since had all the wood they could use? Even skiing in the forest while Caesar followed behind or plowed ahead had not occupied all of Franz's time, and the days had become tedious indeed.

The once-bright dream of becoming a _maronnier_, or lay worker, at the Hospice of St. Bernard had faded with the passing of time. If the Prior intended to consider him at all, surely he'd have done so before this--and in his own heart Franz did not blame the Prior. Why should the Prior of St. Bernard want anyone whose sole talents consisted of wood cutting and mountain climbing, when his own village did not even want him?

"So you did nothing?" Father Paul asked. "The remark does you compliment, for modesty in the very young is far more becoming than in the old." He began to tease. "I must say that you are wholly correct. Had you stayed home that night, rather than venture forth with Caesar, Emil would have been rescued anyhow. I haven't the least doubt that Caesar would have done it all by himself."

Franz murmured, "I'm sure he would."

"Oh, Franz, Franz," Father Paul sighed. "Would that I could teach you!"

"I've tried everything I know," the elder Halle said, a bit gruffly. "There simply is nothing more."

"You are too harsh," Father Paul chided him.

"I must be harsh," Franz's father said. "The boy will shortly be a man. Can he take his proper place among the householders of Dornblatt if he knows nothing except how to cut wood, run the forests and climb mountains? Do not condemn me, Father Paul. If I did not love the boy, would I care what happens to him? But I repeat, I can think of nothing more."

Father Paul said, "I can."

Franz's father and mother turned quickly toward him. His four sisters leaned eagerly forward in their chairs and even Franz was interested. An unreadable smile played on Father Paul's lips.

"Tell us," Franz's father pleaded.

"Very well," Father Paul agreed. "Had there been no news of Emil, I'd have had reason to come here, anyway. When I returned from Martigny, there was a message waiting--"

He stopped for a moment, and Franz's father begged, "Father Paul, please go on!"

Father Paul smiled. "It was a message from the Prior of St. Bernard Hospice. Franz has been chosen as a _maronnier_, and he is to report as soon as possible."

"No!" Franz whooped.

His father looked sternly at him. "Please, Franz! Speak quietly or do not speak!"

"Let the boy shout," Father Paul reproved him. "There have been so many doors to which he could not find the key. At long last, one has swung wide and beckons him in."

Franz's puzzled father said, "I do not understand you."

Father Paul explained. "I mean that, from this time on, Franz may go forward."

"Caesar, too?" Franz asked breathlessly.

"Caesar, too," answered Father Paul. "I promised I'd inquire about your dog, and I kept my promise. You should know, however, that Caesar will be expected to pay his way with his work."

Franz exclaimed happily, "Caesar and I like work!"

"Had I thought otherwise, I never would have recommended you," said Father Paul. He looked at Franz's father and mother. "Well?"

"It's so far," Franz's mother said worriedly, "and so strange."

"It is neither as far nor as strange as you think," Father Paul reassured her. "It is true that the summer is much shorter, the winters much colder and the snow much deeper than you ever know them to be in Dornblatt. But, like everyone else who serves at the Hospice, Franz has been reared in the mountains. I assure you that he will fit in very well."

"He may go," the elder Halle said.

"He--may go," Franz's mother quavered. "How--how shall we prepare him for the journey?"

"Supply him with enough food and clothing for the walk," Father Paul replied. "Since snow may fall in St. Bernard Pass any day of the year, I suggest that he have at least one heavy coat. After he arrives, the Hospice will provide for him."

Franz's mother said brokenly, "Thank you, Father Paul."

6: FATHER BENJAMIN

Swinging the pack on his shoulders with an ease born of long practice, Franz turned to look down the slope he had just climbed. Bearing a similar pack, Caesar turned with him.

Only the memory of his mother's tears when they exchanged their farewells kept Franz from shouting with joy. This was far and away the most fascinating experience of his life.

The route, as explained by Father Paul, had proven absurdly simple. Franz must go to Bourg and follow the Valley of the River Drance. After that, he couldn't possibly get lost, for the only path he'd find must take him over St. Bernard Pass. But the way had proven anything except routine or monotonous to Franz.

Leaving the hardwoods, the forest with which he was most familiar, he had entered, and was still in, a belt of evergreens. He laughed happily.

Jean Greb, who by no means lacked imagination, had once told Franz that to see one tree was to see all trees. But that great spruce only a few yards down the path, whose wide-spreading branches allowed room for nothing else, was very like--Franz stifled the thought that the greedy spruce might be compared to greedy Emil Gottschalk, for it ill-befitted anyone to think badly of a human being who was already in enough trouble. But the spindly larch whose summer needles were just beginning to grow back was remarkably like Grandpa Eissman, with his straggling hair and stubble of beard. The fat scotch pine, that seemed to hold its middle and laugh when the wind shook it, might well be fat and jolly Aunt Maria Reissner. The knobs on the trunk of a young pine reminded Franz strongly of knobby-kneed young Hertha Bittner.

Franz turned to go on, thinking that Jean Greb was wrong and that all trees were not alike. They differed as greatly as people. Probably every person in the world had his or her counterpart in some tree.

A bustling stream snarled across the path, hurried down the slope and, as though either bent on its own destruction or in a desperate hurry to keep its rendezvous with the sea, hurled itself over a two-hundred-foot cliff. Foam churned up in the pool where it fell and the sun, shining through it, created a miniature but perfect rainbow.

Franz stopped for a long while to watch, for in such things he found deep pleasure. Then he and Caesar leaped the stream and went on.

It was noticeably colder than it had been at the lower altitudes and Franz recalled Grandpa Eissman's explanation for Alpine temperatures. Pointing to a ledge a bit less than three thousand feet up the side of Little Sister, he had said that, when warm summer reigned in Dornblatt, autumn held sway there. Since sixty degrees was regarded as summer in Dornblatt, and thirty-two degrees, the freezing point, might reasonably be considered autumn, it followed that the temperature dropped approximately one degree for each three hundred feet of altitude.

But Franz did not feel the cold. This was partly because, sometimes in steep pitches and sometimes in gentle rises, the path he followed went steadily upward. Excited anticipation added its own warmth, so that presently he removed his coat and tied it to the pack.

In the late afternoon, they emerged from the evergreen forest into the Alpine region. This was where the cattle found rich summer pasturage, and where thrifty Swiss farmers cut much of their hay. Here were stunted pines, juniper, dwarf willows and millions of narcissuses and crocuses in full bloom. High on the side of a rocky crag, Franz spied a sprig of edelweiss and was tempted to climb up and pluck it. But the day was wasting fast and the climb up the crag might be more difficult than it appeared. Spending the night on the face of the crag would mean a cold camp indeed. It would be wiser to go on to the rest hut.

The sun was still an hour high when he reached it, a rock and log hut a little ways from the path. Franz opened the door, dropped his pack and removed Caesar's. Then, with the mastiff padding beside him, he started into the meadow, carrying the small hatchet that was a parting gift from his father.

There was wood already in the hut. But it was not only possible but probable that some wayfarer too exhausted to cut his own wood might reach the shelter, and to find fuel at hand would surely save a life. Able-bodied travelers were obligated to gather their own.

But so many wayfarers had come this way, and so many seekers of fuel had gone out from the hut, that Franz had to travel a long distance before finding a tree, a small pine whose withered foliage proved that it was dead, so suitable for firewood.

Bracing his back against a boulder, the boy pushed the tree over with his foot rather than cut it, for the dried trunk broke easily. He chopped out the remaining splinters with his hatchet and, dragging the tree behind him, started back toward the hut.

He was still a considerable distance from it when Caesar, who had been pacing beside him, pricked up his ears and trotted forward. The dog looked fixedly in the direction of the structure. Coming near, Franz saw that he was to have a companion.

The newcomer was a tall, blond young man, wearing the garb of an Augustinian monk. Since he was in the act of divesting himself of the pouch wherein he carried food and other necessities of the road, evidently he had just arrived. He looked up, saw Franz and Caesar, and his white teeth flashed as he smiled.

"Hello, fellow travelers!" he called cheerfully. "I am Father Benjamin."

More than a little overawed because he was to share the hut with such distinguished company, Franz said, "I am Franz Halle and this is my dog, Caesar. We are pleased to have you with us."

Father Benjamin laughed. "I am sure the pleasure shall be mine. Hereafter, I may truthfully say that I shared a hut with Caesar. If you'll wait a moment, Franz, I will bring my portion of the wood."

Franz said, "This is enough for two."

"So I am to be your guest?" Father Benjamin asked. "I am indeed honored." He looked keenly at the boy. "Aren't you a bit young to travel this path with only a dog as companion?"

"I must travel it," Franz told him. "I go to the Hospice of St. Bernard, where I am to become a _maronnier_."

"A _maronnier_, eh?" Father Benjamin asked. "And what inspired you to become such?"

"I am too stupid to be anything else," Franz answered.

Father Benjamin's laughter rang out, free as summer thunder and warm as a June rain. Puzzled, Franz could only stare. After a bit, the monk stopped laughing.

"I do crave your pardon!" he said. "But it is rare to receive such an honest answer to a well-intended question. Nor do I think you are stupid, young Franz Halle. Those who are never say so. Surely you are clever in some ways?"

"I can cut wood, climb mountains, get about on snow and work with Caesar," said Franz.

Father Benjamin said gravely, "Then you are surely coming to the right place."

Franz began taking bread, cheese and cakes from his pack. "What does _maronnier_ mean?" he asked.

"Moor," replied Father Benjamin. "The Moors are a warlike people from a far country. They robbed and stole, and one of the finest places to do so, since many travelers must go through it, was the Pass of St. Bernard. When our sainted Bernard first came this way, he was merely Bernard de Menthon, a youth not yet in his twenties. He and those with him found the Pass held by a group of Moorish bandits, whose chief was named Marsil. Bernard, most devout even then, held his crucifix erect and put the entire band to flight."

"With a crucifix alone?" Franz asked incredulously.

"It is thought by some that the clubs and axes carried by Bernard and his party and wielded with telling effect on Moorish skulls, helped out," Father Benjamin admitted, "but we like to believe that his faith and courage are what counted most. Bernard went on into Italy, where in due time he became Archbishop of Aosta. Travelers through the Pass continued to tell of Moorish bandits, so Bernard returned to rout them."

"And did he?" Franz asked breathlessly.

"He did indeed," answered Father Benjamin. "But other tales were also coming out of the Pass. They were stories of travelers who died in the terrible storms that rage across these heights in winter, and there were a great many such unhappy tales. Bernard determined to build a hospice, a shelter for all who needed it, at the very summit of the Pass. The Moors, led by the same Marsil whom Bernard had previously defeated, knew they could never prevail against such might. So rather than fight him again, they chose to become Christians and join Bernard. Since they could not be priests, they became lay brothers, or _maronniers_."

"It is a wonderful story!" Franz gasped.

Father Benjamin said seriously, "One of the most wonderful ever told. This Pass has been in use since mankind began to travel. The Roman legions used it to invade Gaul. Hannibal took his army through it to invade Italy. Countless others have traveled through it, and countless people still do and will. We who are charged with its keeping consider it the finest privilege of all to serve at the Hospice of St. Bernard."

"What is it like?" Franz asked.

"It is cold, my young friend," replied Father Benjamin. "There are winter days of fifty below zero. Snow in the Pass lies forty-five feet deep. The wind blows constantly and fiercely and shifts the snow about so that the entire landscape may change from one day to the next. Sometimes there is a complete change in an hour, or even minutes. Some might think it the most miserable life imaginable, but we who serve at the Hospice know it is the finest!"

"How long will you be there?" Franz asked.

Father Benjamin told him, "Even though only men born to the mountains and skilled in mountain arts are chosen for service at the Hospice, and even though our spirits may be strong, the bodies of the strongest cannot endure the trials we must face for more than twelve years. But during those years, and quite apart from ministering to souls, all of us save lives. That is our reward."

Franz asked, "Do you save everyone?"

"Unfortunately, no," said Father Benjamin. "Many are still lost. But in the more than seven centuries that have passed since Bernard de Menthon erected the Hospice, an army of people who otherwise would have been victims of the snow have lived to return to their loved ones and carry on constructive work."

"Do travelers use the Pass all winter?" Franz continued his eager questioning.

"Indeed they do," Father Benjamin assured him. "The path is open to the next rest house, where we shall sleep tomorrow night, and travelers may safely make their own way that far. From there on to the Hospice, some five miles, is the real danger area. There is another rest house five miles down the south slope. When possible, which is when the weather is not so bad as to make it impossible, one of us visits each rest house every day. Such wayfarers as may be there are then guided to the Hospice and, of course, on down to the next rest house."

Franz asked, "What is your greatest difficulty?"

"Choosing a safe trail," Father Benjamin declared. "I've spoken of the fierce winds and shifting snows. Each time we go down to a rest house, we face an entirely different landscape, where a misstep might well mean death to us and those we guide. But come now, Franz, is it not time to stop talking and start supping?"

"Indeed it is," Franz agreed, "and my mother prepared a great store of food. I shall be honored if you will share it."

"And I shall be honored to share," said Father Benjamin.

7: THE HOSPICE

The wind that screamed between the high peaks which kept a grim vigil over both sides of St. Bernard Pass proclaimed itself monarch.

Man was the trespasser here, the wind said, and let who trespassed look to himself. The only kindness he could expect was a quick and painless death. This was the haunt of the elements.

Overawed and more than a little afraid, Franz tried to speak to Father Benjamin, who was leading the way. The wind snatched the words from his teeth, whirled them off on its own wings and hurled mocking echoes back into the boy's ears. Franz dropped a hand to the massive head of Caesar, who was pacing beside him, and found some comfort there.

Franz thought back over the way they had come.

The inn at Cantine, where he had passed the night with Father Benjamin, was not a half hour's travel time behind them, yet it was an entire world away. The inn was still civilization. This was a lost territory. The Alpine meadows had given way to rocks and boulders, among which grew only moss and lichens. The wind was right and no man belonged here.

Franz shuddered. They had skirted chasms where a fall meant death. They had passed beneath rising cliffs whereupon lay boulders so delicately balanced that it was almost as though an incautious breath would set them to rolling, and an avalanche with them. In the shadier places there had been deep snow, and at no point was the permanent snow line more than a few hundred yards above them.

With a mighty effort, Franz banished his fears and regained his self-control. This was the Grand St. Bernard Pass, one of the easiest of all ways to cross the Alps. The altitude was only about eight thousand feet. When Franz stood on the summit of Little Sister he had been almost a mile higher. The old, the crippled and children used this Pass regularly.

Franz told himself that he had been overwhelmed by the reputation of the Pass, rather than by any real danger. It went without saying that so many perished here simply because so many came here. The boy fastened his thoughts on practical matters.

Supplies for the Hospice, Father Benjamin had told him, were brought to Cantine on mules and carried from there by monks and _maronniers_. It was not that mules were unable to reach the Hospice--sometimes they did--but, at best, it was a highly uncertain undertaking. From about the middle of June until the autumn storms began, the Pass was considered safe enough so that rescue work might be halted during that period, but an unexpected blizzard might come any time. Thus, though in due course the muleteer probably would be able to get his animals back down, as long as they were marooned at the Hospice they'd be consuming valuable and hard-to-gather hay.

Father Benjamin turned and spoke, and Franz heard clearly. "We have a fine day for our journey."

Franz tried to answer, could not, and Father Benjamin smiled and waved him ahead. The boy grinned sheepishly. He should have remembered that it is almost impossible to speak against such a wind but relatively easy to speak, and be heard, with it. He edged past Father Benjamin and said, "Indeed we have."

He was suddenly calm and no longer afraid. This was no foreign land and it was not a place of devils. It was his homeland. It was St. Bernard Pass, where, of his own free will, he had wanted to become a _maronnier_. He belonged here.

Father Benjamin put his mouth very close to Franz's ear and shouted, "Do you still think you have chosen well?"

Franz answered sincerely, "Very well."

"Good!"

Father Benjamin indicated that he wanted to pass and Franz let him do so. The monk turned to the icecapped peaks on the right of the Pass.

"There are Rheinquellhorn, Zappothorn, Fil Rosso and Pizzo Rotondo," he said, then turned to the left. "There we see Pizzo della Lumbreda, Pizzo Tambo and Pizzo dei Piani. They will become your firm friends."

Franz shouted, "They are already my friends."

When Father Benjamin frowned questioningly, Franz smiled to show that he understood and the pair went on. The wind suddenly sang a song instead of snarling threats. Lowlanders who understood nothing except a warm sun might flinch from such weather. But, as Father Benjamin had said, it was indeed a fine day--if one happened to be a mountaineer.

Presently Father Benjamin stopped again. "The Hospice," he said.

Franz looked, more than a little astonished. He hadn't had the faintest notion of what he might expect, but certainly it was not the massive, fortresslike structure that, though still a long ways off, seemed as prominent as any of the peaks. Presently the boy understood.

The Hospice must be visible from as great a distance as possible. Many an exhausted traveler, coming this far and sure he could go no farther, would find the strength to do so if he could see a refuge.

Father Benjamin pointed out the principal buildings. "The chapel," he said. "The refectory, where meals are eaten and guests entertained, the sleeping quarters, the house of the dead--"

Franz looked questioningly at him and Father Benjamin explained. "The mortal remains of many who die in the snows are never claimed. At first they were interred beneath the Hospice floor. Now, in the event that someone will claim them some time, they go into the house of the dead. Some have been there for a hundred years."

Franz felt a proper awe. A hundred years was a long time to be dead. But to be dead a hundred years in a place such as this, which was shunned by even the cliff and cold-loving edelweiss, must indeed be dreadful! Franz consoled himself with the thought that the dead have no feeling. No doubt those who rested in warm valleys and those who waited in this grim house would both awaken when Gabriel blew his trumpet.

They drew nearer, and Franz saw a little lake from which the ice had not yet melted. That was fitting and proper and altogether in keeping. Some of these Alpine lakes were ice-free for fewer than thirty days out of the whole year.

Then they came to a stable beneath one of the buildings and Franz met his immediate superior.

He was big as a mountain and bald as a hammer. His eyes were blue as glacier ice that has been swept clean by the broom of the wind, and at first glance they seemed even colder. His face, for all his size, was strangely massive. Perhaps because of his very lack of other hair, his curling mustaches seemed far longer than their eight inches. For all the cold, he wore only a sleeveless leather jacket on his upper body. It hung open, leaving his midriff, chest and biceps bare. Rippling muscles furnished more than a hint of great strength.

Franz thought at first glance that he was a dedicated man, one who is absolutely devoted to his work, for he treated Father Benjamin with vast respect.

"Anton," Father Benjamin said, "I want you to meet the new _maronnier_, Franz Halle. Franz, this is Anton Martek. He will instruct you in your duties here."

"Is good to have you." Anton Martek extended a hand the size of a small ham. "Your dog work? Yah?"

"Oh, yes!" Franz said eagerly. "See for yourself that he carries a pack even now!"

Caesar wagged up to Anton Martek, who ruffled the dog's ears but continued to look at Franz.

"Packing is not all of work." He scowled. "Is he a spit dog, too?"

"A what?" Franz wrinkled puzzled brows.

With a sweeping circle of his right arm, Anton offered a near-perfect imitation of a dog walking around and around while the meat on a spit roasted. Franz warmed to this huge man. Anton's ice was all on the outside. Inwardly, he was gentle as the fawn of a chamois.

"Not yet," Franz said. "But I know we can teach him."

"Yah," said Anton. "We teach him."

Father Benjamin laughed. "You two seem to be getting along very well together, so I'll leave you alone."

Anton said respectfully, "As you will, Father," and turned to Franz. "Come."

Franz followed him into the stable, that was windowless, except for rectangles of wood hung on wooden hinges that now swung open to admit the sunlight. The place had a familiar smell the boy was unable to define until he remembered that the same odor dominated his mother's kitchen, and that it was the odor of complete cleanliness.

"Where are the cattle?" he asked.

Anton replied, "Down in the pasture."

"Down?"

"Yah. You villagers bring them up. We take them down. There is no pasture here."

He led Franz to a great pile of hay at one end of the stable and gestured. "You sleep here."

Franz laid his pack down and relieved Caesar of his, not at all displeased. There are, as he knew from experience, sleeping places not nearly as comfortable as a pile of hay.

"We get you some more covers soon," Anton promised. "But for now there is work. You will clean the stable."

"But--" Franz looked in bewilderment at the already spotless stable. "It is clean!"

"Ha!" Anton snorted. He stalked to a rafter, ran one huge finger along it, discovered a tiny speck of dust and showed it to Franz. "See? You will clean the stable."

Franz said meekly, "Yes, Anton."

8: A FREE DAY

It had not been easy to coax Caesar inside, even into a stable, but Franz had succeeded both in getting him in and in persuading the big Alpine Mastiff to sleep at his feet. Now, as the wind screamed through St. Bernard Pass and the frost cut like a sharp knife, Franz grinned to himself.

He understood that the three other _maronniers_ at the Hospice; the novices, or apprentice priests; the Aumonier, who welcomed guests and dispensed charity; the Clavandier, who watched over all stores; the Sacristan, whose duty it was to take charge of the Chapel; the Abbe, who watched over the novices; the four Canons, whose authority was exceeded only by that of the Prior, and even the great Prior himself, slept in unheated cells.

He was not positive about this because anyone as lowly as he could never be sure about the doings of people as mighty as they. For all he knew, the Hospice would collapse if he spoke to any of the Canons, and the mountains themselves would tumble if he even looked at the Prior. But he thought it was true.

If it was, then he, Franz Halle, the humblest of the humble _maronniers_, had by far the finest sleeping quarters in Great St. Bernard Pass. With fragrant hay as a mattress, plenty of blankets, a dog to keep his feet warm, and the four gentle cows of the Hospice to add their warmth to the stable, let the wind scream as it would and the frost crackle as it might. He would never care.

Caesar shifted his position at Franz's feet, to bring his head nearer the boy's right hand. Franz took his hand from beneath the blankets to tickle Caesar's ears, and a worried frown creased his forehead.

Besides Caesar, he had two firm friends at the Hospice, Father Benjamin and Anton Martek. The other two _maronniers_ were surly individuals who kept much to themselves. Franz did not even know their names. The novices, boys about Franz's own age, were much too busy with their own duties to have any time for a mere _maronnier_. Naturally it was unthinkable, aside from attending devotions, to intrude on the world of the priests. Father Benjamin, who came to the stable at regular intervals, had made a real effort to strengthen a friendship that began when he and Franz came up the path together.

Anton Martek worried Franz, and the dawn to dark work Anton demanded had no bearing on it, for the boy did not mind working long hours. But there was Caesar, too. The mastiff had worked willingly beside his master while they freighted hay or wood from the lower reaches or carried supplies from the inn at Cantine. But winter was fast approaching, and when it came, there would be almost no packing for Caesar, and everything that lived at the Hospice must necessarily earn its own way.

Since there was little else, Anton and Franz had tried their valiant best to make a spit dog of Caesar. But the great animal, who did so many things so well, seemed wholly unable to adjust to what he doubtless considered the low comedy of turning a spit. On the first trial, he whirled in his tracks and snatched at and ate the roast he was supposed to be turning. When Anton fashioned a harness that made it impossible for him to turn, Caesar's nearness to the fire, with its unaccustomed warmth, made him so uncomfortable that he simply lay down and refused to move at all.

A longer pole that put him farther away from the fire offended his dignity. Rather than pace slowly, so that the meat would turn slowly and roast evenly on all sides, he whirled at such speed that it was a marvel the roast stayed on the spit. Weights on his paws, designed to slow him down, aroused his stubbornness. Rather than turn the spit at all, he pulled it completely apart and let the roast fall into the fire.

Shouting threats accomplished nothing. Caesar knew his own strength and, providing it was consistent with his dignity, he would work because he loved Franz. He would not be bullied. Rewards in the shape of meat dangled enticingly before him were haughtily rejected. Caesar would not be bribed, either.

The stubborn Anton had not abandoned hope and was still determined to make a spit dog of Caesar, but, in the darkness, Franz's worried frown deepened. The mastiff was equally determined that he would not turn the spit, therefore, not even Anton could make him do it.

An anguished little moan escaped Franz. If Caesar were declared useless and banished from the mountain, life in St. Bernard Pass, that had become so very fine, would be so very bleak. A second time Franz reached out to ruffle the big mastiff's ears.

"Try!" he whispered fiercely. "Try hard, Caesar!"

The dog licked his hand. Thus comforted, his body cushioned by soft hay, warmed by blankets and Caesar, and with the cattle adding their warmth to the stable, Franz never heard the wind scream and never thought of the frost.

He was awakened by Anton Martek, who lighted his way into the stable with a glass-shielded candle. Caesar rose and wagged his tail to greet this new friend whom he had come to like so well, and Franz sat sleepily up in bed. Anton hung his candle-lantern on a wooden peg.

"It is time to be up," he scoffed good-naturedly. "The day is for working."

"It is not day yet," Franz protested.

Anton said, "Soon it will be."

Anton, who was entirely willing to let Franz clean the stable as long as he kept it spotless, but who never permitted anyone except himself to handle the cows or their products, began to groom his charges. He always followed the same procedure. After the cows were clean as comb and brush could make them, he would wash their udders with warm water. Then he would milk, care for the milk and clean the cows all over again.

Franz impulsively asked a question that had long tickled his curiosity, but that he had never dared ask before. "Why do you stay here, Anton?"

The huge man turned toward him, comb in one hand and brush in the other, and for a moment his eyes were so terrible that Franz shrank before them. The eyes softened the merest trifle.

"Why do you ask that?" Anton asked quietly.

"I--I've just wondered, and I--I'm sorry if I offended you," Franz stammered.

Anton said, "You meant well and I will tell you. At one time, I lived in Martigny, where I was famous for my strength. There was another man who was neither bad nor good. He was much like the jay that always chatters but seldom says anything worth the listening, and he was given to spasms of rage. I saw him strike a child, a little boy, who should not have been taunting him but was. I told the man that he must never again strike a child. The man struck at me and--"

Anton's voice trailed off into a husky whisper. He stared for a moment at the far wall of the stable, then continued, "I struck back and--I killed him. I never meant to kill, and I knew I did not, for it is a terrible thing to take the life of a fellow human. But the only others who knew I never intended to kill were the Fathers at the Hospice. They gave me refuge. They cared for my body as well as my spirit. They restored my faith in God and in man. They made a man from what had been a beast. That is why I am happy to serve them and why I shall never leave this place!"

"I understand!" Franz exclaimed. "And I don't believe you ever intended to kill either!"

"Thank you, little Franz." Anton's rare smile flashed. "Now, if you will get your breakfast, I will care for my babies here."

Caesar at his heels, Franz left the stable and made his way to the kitchen. Caesar sat down outside the door. Paul Maurat, the surly _maronnier_ who presided over the kitchen, kept his domain as spotless as Anton insisted the stable be kept. Certainly, he would never dream of letting a dog invade his kingdom.

A tall, string-thin and apparently ageless man, he motioned Franz to a chair, served him barley gruel, black bread, cheese, and milk and apparently forgot all about him. Franz finished his meal and went outside, where he was rejoined by Caesar, and the pair returned to the stable.

"Back so soon?" Anton asked. "Would Paul not feed you?"

"He fed me very well," Franz declared, "but I have been thinking."

"And what has occupied your thoughts?" Anton asked.

"A very great man I knew in Dornblatt," Franz answered. "His name is Professor Luttman, and he is a teacher, and it is in no way his fault because I am too stupid to grasp what he tried to teach."

"Not everyone may understand the wisdom that is written in books," Anton said.

"That I know," agreed Franz. "But I cannot escape a feeling that I betrayed Professor Luttman. I am sure he knows I am just a _maronnier_ at St. Bernard Hospice. Father Paul, the village priest who acted on my behalf in order that I might come here, would have told him. I am also sure that, on the day he expelled me from his school, he knew I would always hold a humble station."

"He is a wise man?" Anton questioned.

"Very wise," Franz replied.

"The wise do not have to be told that the world is made up of the humble and the mighty," Anton said. "They know that much from their own wisdom. Think no more about it."

"I cannot help thinking about it," Franz said in a troubled voice. "I would like to prove to Professor Luttman that a _maronnier's_ is a good life. Since I cannot, are you ready to have me start cleaning the stable?"

"Today I clean the stable," Anton said. "It is not that you have failed to do it very well, but you have worked hard and long. This shall be a free day for you and Caesar."

"Oh, Anton!"

"Go along now." Anton's smile was pleased.

Caesar at his heels, Franz again left the stable. He braced himself against the wind as soon as he was outside and paused to consider. It was fine to have a free day, but in St. Bernard Pass, exactly what did one do with it? The surrounding peaks invited him. But though the only evidence of foul weather to be lay in an overcast sky, Franz had an uneasy premonition that something besides an ordinary storm was in prospect. It would never do to be caught on a mountainside while such a storm raged.

Just then Father Benjamin came around a corner of the refectory. "Hello, young Franz!"

"Father Benjamin!" Franz cried happily, then added, "Anton has given me the day to spend as I wish."

"How very fine!" said Father Benjamin. "I am on my way to the inn at Cantine. It isn't really necessary, since there seems to be little likelihood of snow, but any travelers who await there may feel easier if they have a guide. Do you want to come along?"

Father Benjamin, Franz and Caesar made their way down the rocky path and found four people waiting to cross the mountain. They were an elderly man, his middle-aged daughter, a boy about Franz's age and a girl not yet in her teens.

Father Benjamin spoke reassuringly to them. "There is nothing to fear. We will guide you to the Hospice, and after you have rested there, you will be guided to the rest house on the opposite slope."

As they all started up the slope, Franz's uneasiness grew. The wind sang a song of trouble. He comforted himself with the thought that Father Benjamin was better able than he to judge what might happen.

They were halfway between the inn and the Hospice when a sudden, blinding blizzard swept down upon them.

9: THE BLIZZARD

The girl and the boy drew a little nearer to Father Benjamin. Their faith showed in their eyes, as though nothing ill could befall them while they were under the guardianship of a priest from the Hospice. The Augustinian, their actions said, might even halt the blizzard by raising his hand and commanding it to stop.

But the elderly man, who had spent his life in the mountains and knew the real danger of such storms, cried out in fear. His fright communicated itself to the woman ... and spread from her to the boy and girl, who would not have been afraid at all had they not seen for themselves that their elders were frightened.

Father Benjamin took instant, firm command.

"Have you never before seen snow fall?" he thundered. "Be quiet and act sensibly!"

"Yes, Holy Father," the elderly man said humbly.

Father Benjamin turned to Franz. "I will guide. You bring up the rear with Caesar."

Franz fought to keep his voice from trembling as he replied, "Yes, Father Benjamin."

He let the others pass and fell in behind. He knew that Father Benjamin wanted him there to keep the little group from straying or straggling, and he was proud to be trusted with such responsibility. At the same time, he was more than a little afraid.

The winter snows in Dornblatt had been fierce enough; often it was impossible to see the house next to that in which one lived. But the snows of Dornblatt had remained within the scope of human understanding, and humans had always been able to cope with the worst of them.

This was a wild beast uncaged, a snarling, raging thing that had burst the bonds of control the instant it began. With the blizzard only minutes old, already they were walking in snow that came halfway to the tops of their shoes. Though each person stayed as close as possible to the one in front of him, Franz could barely make out the form of Father Benjamin, who was leading the way.

He had a sudden, terrifying thought that they were just mites, specks of dust in an inferno of snow. The mad wind would whirl them away as it whirled the snowflakes. When the wind finally lulled and dropped them somewhere in the immensity of the Alps, they would still be as nothing, for a human being is small indeed compared with a mountain.

Resolutely Franz put such fears behind him. Man's body, and that alone, had never conquered the Alps or anything else. Man's spirit was the true conqueror, and spirit would see them safely through this blizzard. The thought gave back to him his old serenity and calmness.

The girl, walking in front of him, slipped and almost went down. Franz caught her elbow and helped her regain her balance.

"Careful, little sister!" he shouted, to make himself heard above the wind. "The snow is a cold bed!"

She turned and gave him a grateful smile, and Franz knew that his recovered confidence had imparted itself to her. They hurried to catch up with the others, who had gained a few feet. Franz looked questioningly at Father Benjamin.

Fortunately, the wind was blowing up the mountain, so that they did not have to fight it. But cross currents and gusty little side eddies blew the snow in every imaginable direction. There was no landmark whatever; even the peaks were hidden. Franz, who had been this way many times, knew that he himself hadn't the faintest notion as to whether or not they were on the path. Did Father Benjamin know?

Again he put the thought behind him. Regardless of anything else, Father Benjamin must _act_ as though he knew. Just as he had exploded the travelers' fears with the thunder of his words when the blizzard began, so he must now inspire them with confidence by showing confidence himself. To do otherwise meant panic, and panic meant that all were lost.

Father Benjamin plowed through a knee-deep drift and halted. The others grouped around him.

"We will have a short rest." Even though the Augustinian had to shout, he seemed as serene and unruffled as though he were addressing some of his fellow priests at the Hospice. "This is the first snow and we may very well get along without skis. But it is foolish to exhaust ourselves."

"_Salvezza!_" the old man moaned. "Salvation! Or shall we find any?"

The woman said, but with no great conviction, "This good Father will lead us safely to the Hospice."

"He cannot!" asserted the old man.

The young girl said, half-contemptuously, "You have no faith."

Father Benjamin spoke kindly to the frightened old man. "Be of good cheer, Grandfather, for in a short time we will be at the Hospice. After you have rested, go to the Chapel and give thanks to our good Saint Bernard, who founded the Hospice so that travelers such as you might live."

"I, too, shall give thanks to Saint Bernard," the girl declared confidently.

"And I," the boy echoed.

Father Benjamin turned again to the frightened old man. "Can you fear when mere children cannot? Let us go."

With Caesar beside him, Franz took his place at the rear. He turned his head constantly from side to side, hoping for a break in the draperies of snow that hid all save that which was immediately before him. If there were such a rift, even for a second, he might see a familiar boulder, cluster of boulders, or mountain peak that would tell him they were on the path.

He had a growing fear that they were not, for who could find a path in a storm such as this? The landscape changed beneath his very eyes. A drift that had been was suddenly no longer when the wind blew it into snow dust. A drift that had not been was present when the snow-laden wind wearied of its burden and dropped it.

Franz placed a hand on Caesar's head and found in the massive dog the comfort he never failed to discover there. He and Caesar had faced many storms together, though none had been as terrible as this. But, as Father Benjamin had said, it was just a snowstorm.

Suddenly, Caesar left Franz's side, bounded ahead, hurled himself on Father Benjamin, seized the priest's habit in his great jaws, and pulled him over backwards.

For a moment, Franz stood petrified, too astonished to even move. The four travelers stared, unable at once to understand what had happened or what they were staring at.

Franz recovered his wits and ran forward. He knelt beside Father Benjamin and Caesar, who maintained a firm grip on the priest's robe, and shouted, "I'm sorry, Father Benjamin! I do not know why Caesar would do such a terrible thing!"

"Make him let me go!" Father Benjamin's voice was stern and indignant.

"Let go, Caesar!" Franz commanded. "Let go, I say!"

Caesar closed his eyes, took a firmer grip and dragged Father Benjamin six inches backwards through the snow. The angry priest turned to grapple with him.

There was a soft hissing, as though a thousand snowflakes had fallen on a hot stove all at the same time. A bridge of snow, upon which Father Benjamin would have walked had he taken one more forward step, fell in and revealed the yawning chasm across which it had formed.

Caesar released his grip on Father Benjamin's habit, sat down beside the priest, and licked his hand with an apologetic tongue.

"He knew!" Father Benjamin gasped. "That is why he pulled me back!"

Franz said, "Caesar always knows the safe trails."

"Then you should have told us so, little Franz," Father Benjamin said.

"I had not wanted to trespass upon your authority," the boy explained.

Father Benjamin said, "When lives are at stake, it is never a question of authority but one of common sense. Can Caesar guide us safely from here?"

Franz answered unhesitatingly, "Yes."

"Then let him lead."

Franz said, "Go, Caesar."

The great mastiff struck off at a thirty-degree angle to the course they had been following. He broke a drift with his massive shoulders.

"I am done," the old man wailed piteously. "Leave me and go on."

Father Benjamin said, "We will rest."

"I am truly spent!" the old man cried. "I cannot walk another step."

Franz staggered through a drift already broken by Caesar and groped with his hands. They found a brick wall.

It was the Hospice.

10: THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

Franz braced the sole of his shoe against the blade of his shovel, took a big bite of snow and threw it high above his head. Even cows, Anton Martek had told him--or especially cows--might lose their faith if they could never see daylight.

How could they see daylight if the windows of their stable were darkened by snow? And how could the snow be removed unless someone shoveled it away? Franz thought grimly that, at last, he knew why the handles of the shovels at St. Bernard Hospice were a full three feet longer than any in Dornblatt.

Caesar, lying on the snow six feet above the boy's head, wagged an amiable tail and grinned a canine grin. Franz glared at him.

"You might well smile!" he glowered. "You do no work at all! You refuse even to turn the spit!"

Caesar's tail wagged harder and his jaws parted a bit more. A little worm of worry gnawed at Franz's heart. Since the deep snows had started, except to go down to the rest house with Father Benjamin whenever it was the latter's turn to go, the mastiff had been idle.

Anton had worked patiently and endlessly to make him turn the spit--and he was still working at it. But Caesar had discovered a simple ruse that foiled the most cunning scheme Anton could devise; he merely lay down, wagged his tail, beamed agreeably and refused to move at all. Not even Anton cared to drag a hundred-and-fifty-pound dog around and turn the spit with him.

Franz looked beseechingly up at the big mastiff, who was still lying on the snow and interestedly observing his master.

"You should learn to do it!" he begged. "Father Benjamin already knows that you will not work! Soon Father Martin or Father Stephen will discover that Anton and I have been taking turns revolving the spit for you. They will inform one of the Canons, who is sure to tell the Prior. Then you will be sent away from the Hospice, which is entirely right and good and as it should be. The Fathers are not men of wealth, who can afford to maintain such a big, lazy loafer as yourself in idleness!"

Caesar wagged his tail a little harder, as though he were being complimented. Franz looked sternly at him, but could not find it in his heart to scold any more.

"It will be very right and very just if you are sent away," he said sadly, "but it will leave me so very lonesome. Caesar, you _must_ try!"

Franz turned back to his shoveling, fastening his heart and mind on the one ray of hope that remained to him. Since the day of the blizzard, when Caesar had brought them safely to the Hospice, Father Benjamin had emphatically declared that any dog able to do such a thing was priceless. But he was not going to be readily accepted.

There had been dogs at the Hospice since its founding; tradition said that Bernard de Menthon himself had had one. But tradition said also that it was the work of the priests and _maronniers_ at the Hospice to succor travelers. That was why only men born to the mountains and skilled in mountain arts could be accepted for service there.

It had been that way for seven hundred years, said Father Benjamin, and anything that has existed for seven centuries is not lightly discarded. Franz should be of good cheer, and while so being, though he needn't dishonestly conceal the fact that Caesar was doing no work, he needn't advertise it either. Gentle persuasion, according to Father Benjamin, was far more effective than raging or bullying when it came to breaking a wall of custom that was seven hundred years old.

Meanwhile, whenever it was Father Benjamin's turn to go down to either rest house, he would take Caesar with him. Sooner or later, he would prove the dog's value.

Franz sighed and dug his shovel blade into the last of the snow. Caesar had accompanied Father Benjamin on every trip. But on every trip Father Benjamin made, the weather had been so fine that there had been no need for a rescue or any other kind of work. Franz threw the last of the snow out of the hole, climbed out himself and at once slipped his feet into the skis that awaited him.

The snow at this altitude was hard and granular and not at all similar to the soft stuff that often covered the lower reaches. The hard snow, plus Caesar's huge paws, kept him from sinking more than a few inches, and he rose to greet his master with furiously-wagging tail. Franz caught up his shovel, smoothed the snow he had thrown out and turned to look about him.