young enough to be forty; and was a fine
muscular mountaineer, with that grave cast of
countenance which is peculiar to the Valaisan
peasant.

I could not eat. The keenness of my mountain
appetite was gone. I sat, as if fascinated,
in the presence of this strange pair; observing
both, and, apparently, by both as much
forgotten as if I had never crossed their threshold.
We remained thus, by the dim light of the
lantern and the monotonous ticking of the
clock, for some forty minutes or more: all
profoundly silent. Sometimes the woman stirred,
as if in pain; sometimes the cows struck their
horns against the manger in the outhouse.
The herdsman alone sat motionless, like a man
cast in bronze. At length the clock struck
nine. I had by this time become so nervous
that I almost dreaded to hear my own voice
interrupt the silence. However, I pushed my
plate noisily aside, and said, with as much show
of ease as I could muster:

"Have you any place, friend, in which I can
sleep to-night?"

He shifted his position uneasily, and without
looking round, replied in the same form of words
as before:

"Yes; you can sleep, traveller."

"Where? In the loft above?"

He nodded affirmatively, took the lantern
from the table, and turned towards the dairy.
As we passed, the light streamed for a moment
over the crouching figure in the corner.

"Is your wife ill?" I asked, pausing and
looking back.

His eyes met mine for the first time, and a
shudder passed over his body.

"Yes," he said, with an effort. " She is ill."

I was about to ask what ailed her, but
something in his face arrested the question on my
lips. I know not, to this hour, what that
something was. I could not define it then; I cannot
describe it now; but I hope I may never
see it in a living face again.

I followed him to the foot of a ladder at the
further end of the dairy.

"Up there," he said; placed the lantern in
my hand; and strode heavily back into the darkness.

I went up, and found myself in a long low
granary, stored with corn sacks, hay, onions,
rock-salt, cheeses, and farming implements. In
one corner, were the unusual luxuries of a
mattress, a rug, and a three-legged stool. My first
care was to make a systematic inspection of the
loft and all that it contained; my next, to open
a little unglazed lattice with a sliding shutter
just opposite my bed. The night was brilliant,
and a stream of fresh air and moonlight poured
in. Oppressed by a strange undefined sense of
trouble, I extinguished the lantern, and stood
looking out upon the solemn peaks and glaciers.
Their solitude seemed to me more than usually
awful; their silence more than usually profound.
I could not help associating them, in some vague
way, with the mystery in the house. I perplexed
myself with all kinds of wild conjectures as to
what the nature of that mystery might be.
The woman's face haunted me like an evil
dream. Again and again I went from the
lattice to the ladder, and from the ladder back
to the lattice, vainly listening for any sound
in the rooms below. A long time went by
thus, until at length, overpowered by the
fatigues of the day, I stretched myself on the
mattress, took my knapsack for a pillow, and
fell fast asleep.

I can guess neither how long my sleep lasted,
nor from what cause I awoke. I only know
that my sleep was dreamless and profound; and
that I started from it suddenly, unaccountably,
trembling in every nerve, and possessed by an
overwhelming sense of danger.

Danger! Danger of what kind? From
whom? From whence? I looked round—I
was alone, and the quiet moon was shining in
as serenely as when I fell asleep. I listened—
all was as still as when I fell asleep. I got up,
walked to and fro, reasoned with myself; all in
vain. I could not stay the beatings of my heart.
I could not master the horror that oppressed my
brain. I felt that I dared not lie down again;
that I must get out of the house somehow, and
at once; that to stay would be death; that the
instinct by which I was governed must at all
costs be obeyed.

I could not bear it. Resolved to escape,
or, at all events, to sell life dearly, I strapped
on my knapsack, armed myself with my iron-
headed alpenstock, took my large clasp-knife
between my teeth, and began, cautiously and
noiselessly, to descend the ladder. When I was
about half way down, the alpenstock, which I
had been keeping studiously clear of the ladder,
encountered some dairy vessel, and sent it,
clattering, to the ground. Caution, after this,
was useless. I sprang forward, reached the
outer room at a bound, and found it, to my
amazement, deserted, with the door wide open
and the moonlight streaming in. Suspecting a
trap, my first impulse was to stand still, with
my back against the wall, prepared for a desperate
defence. All was silent. I could only hear
the ticking of the clock, and the heavy beating
of my own heart. The pallet was empty. The
bread and milk were still standing where I had
left them on the table. The herdsman's stool
occupied the same spot by the desolate hearth.
But he and his wife were gone—gone in the
dead of night—leaving me, a stranger, in the sole
occupation of their home.

While I was yet irresolute whether to go or
stay, and while I was yet wondering at the
strangeness of my position, I heard, or fancied
I heard, something—something that might have
been the wind, save that there was no air
stirring—something that might have been the wailing
of a human voice. I held my breath—heard
it again—followed it, as it died away. . . . I had
not far to go. A line of light gleaming under
the door of a shed at the back of the châlet, and
a cry bitterer and more piercing than any I had
yet heard, guided me direct to the spot.

I looked in—recoiled, giddy with horror—