summer into steel; filled the narrow streets
of the town with ice and snow; and made
every place bleak, slippery, and dangerous.

It was hard to believe that the radiance
of summer had ever been shed on those
dreary mountain ranges, or that the blue
gentian had ever mocked the sky of August
in those ghastly hollows, or that the
crimson flush of the rhododendron had ever
lighted up, or the sweet Alpine rose ever
made fragrant, those dim and frozen recesses.
The long perspective of the covered
bridges opened drearily before us as we
cautiously ascended the flight of slippery
steps which led to the entrance. Not a
soul was to be seen from end to end
of the long boarded walk, on the wooden
roof of which is dimly visible the dread
imagery of a half faded imitation of Holbein's
famous Dance of Death. Through
the apertures, placed at intervals to admit
light and air, the great gaunt mountains,
snow–hooded, stood out against a
leaden sky: beneath, the inky waters lay,
immovable, about the piers and foundations
of the bridge; and not a sound was
heard, save the patter of our own footsteps,
and the soft fitful slipping of the
snow from the edge of the roof above.

When we had nearly reached the centre
of the bridge, however, we did hear a sound,
and a strange, weird sound! Onward it
came in our rear, as if some strange being
came leaping on behind us—nearer—nearer
—still nearer—yet stopping at intervals as
if to allow us to go on before. And on we
did go, faster and faster (there was no
turning back): each of us straining every
nerve to keep abreast with the other two,
in mortal dread of dropping one inch behind.
Our pursuer, whoever or whatever
he might be, still maintained his self–allotted
distance, and once or twice each
of us thought (for no one spoke), she heard
a low, half–muffled, unnatural laugh. At
last, the sound of leaping ceased suddenly,
and a silence ensued.

Then, as if by common impulse, we all
three turned our heads, took one backward
glance, and with difficulty repressed a cry.
Our pursuer was still there, only at a little
further distance; and in him we recognised,
by the huge mis–shapen head, the mischievous
leering eye, the unnaturally long
and ungainly arms, a miserable being, well
known about the town as the licensed
idiot: "the Crétin of Lucerne."

To turn back and face this weird creature
would have been a risk too great to
run. He might, in one moment, in his
crazy antics, have flung us, one after the
other, through the convenient apertures
into the deep dark waters. He might have
tossed us up to the ceiling of the covered
bridge, and played with us like balls as we
came down again! What might he not
have done? Any course was wiser than
that of turning and attempting to pass
him, lonely and defenceless as we were.
We must trust in God's good providence,
pray inwardly, and hurry on; and so we
did—on—on—still on.

Seeing himself discovered, the monster
playfully crouched down behind a wooden
bench which marked the centre of the
bridge, but soon came out from his momentary
hiding–place, and renewed his
wild leaping and his pursuit. We were
now rapidly approaching the further end
of the bridge, yet that exit offered but a
cheerless prospect. The road upon which
it opened was a great, dreary high road,
not much travelled at any time of the
year, scarcely ever in that season, and with
no nearer habitation than its first post
town, which was at a considerable distance.
From this road branched forth only one
other, which led upward among the hills,
and soon burying itself in the fir and pine
woods, wound its solitary way among their
ferns and mosses until it stopped before the
steps of a small chapel nearly hidden beneath
the drooping boughs. "Our Lady
of the Fir Trees," we ourselves had named
it, when, in the course of our daily wanderings,
we had first seen its slender spire
seeking the sky through an opening in the
surrounding woods.

It was but a choice of evils which now
lay before us. Which of the two roads
should we take? The idiot decided this
momentous question. He drove us up the
narrow woodland one, and up it we rushed
accordingly: stumbling over every obstacle
on our passage; over roots that straggled
across the path, loose stones, pine trunks,
everything. Once or twice we thought
our pursuer did the same; but, if so, he
quickly recovered his feet, following on with
fresh zeal. We had a desperate race to
gain the refuge of the chapel. At last we
reached it. Thank Heaven! its door was
open, and its ever–burning lamp, blue and
dimmed by the forest–mist, faintly lighted
the sanctuary. Thankfully we rushed in,
but started back on perceiving it was
already tenanted by the Dead.

On an open bier, placed on tressels
before the altar, the body of a woman
was laid out, waiting for interment next