the long sweep of the wind was heard at
intervals through the valley.

"There is snow enough up there to bury
the whole village!" said the old men who
were standing in groups, consulting as to
what was to be done.

"Well, well, the baraques must be left—
for who will help to pull them down with
this danger threatening us?"

"Depend on it this will be no light affair,"
said another, "and the neighbours in the
end houses had better come to us for
to-night."

And they separated; each, who considered
himself safe from possible danger,
offering shelter to others who might be
overtaken by it. Thus it happened that, besides
the thirteen baraques, many houses on either
side of the high road for the avalanche, were
left empty. But there were two households
regardless of the danger—one consisted of
father and mother and three children; the
other was an auberge, a little inn frequented
by Spaniards and mountaineers in their
contraband excursions; and, on the night in
question, there were thirteen under this roof.
In both cases they relied for safety on the
fact of the house being built against a projecting
rock, which would afford shelter from
the wind that precedes the avalanche. The
snow is a minor inconvenience that no one
troubles himself much about.

The evening wore into night and nothing
came of anyone's expectations, so everybody
went to bed and to sleep. Not everybody—
for one man sat listening intently for sounds
in the upper regions which might indicate
the approach of danger. At length he rose,
and went into the little room, where his only
child, a youth of seventeen, was sleeping.

"Jules, mon ami, get up!"

Jules slept soundly, and only pulled the
bed-clothes over his head at this appeal.

"Jules!" said his father more loudly,
"make haste—get up and run to neighbour
Henri; tell him I am sure the avalanche
is on the point of falling, and he must catch
up the three children and come with his wife
at once—I feel quite certain they are not safe.
Make haste! It is midnight, and very dark."
Jules had hastily thrown on his clothes;
and, as his father was speaking the last
words, he left the house.

A few minutes only elapsed when there
was that terrific sweep of the wind and crash
of obstacles opposing it, which tells of the
avalanche. The father who stood straining
his eyes through the darkness, thought he
could see the pale spirit that followed
silently and swiftly, and drew its white
mantle over the desolation left by the
storm.

As soon as it was daylight, all Barèges was
at work; for Jules had not been heard of,
and many houses were under the snow:
among them the two which were inhabited.
The father of Jules stood by, and watched
the work in silence. Few words were
uttered by anybody, for who could tell what
the result of the search might be?

They had begun to work, as near as they
could possibly judge, just over Henri's house.
At mid-day they had reached the roof; and,
hastily breaking through, entered. All was
safe. Henri and his wife and children waiting
patiently for their deliverers.

"Jules is not here, then! I sent him to
warn you."

"Ah, mon Dieu," said Henri, "we heard a
cry—just one—it sounded close to the house
—I thought it was some poor beast swept
away by the wind."

The neighbours broke open the house-door
and groped about in the snow. There, lying
across the threshold, and crushed by an adjoining
wall which had fallen on him, lay
poor Jules, dead.

The workers left the father to his grief
and to the care of the women, and hurried
to the auberge, at which some few had
already been occupied since day-break.
The snow beneath which it was buried, lay
so thickly over it, that it was after dusk
before an entry was effected—of course
through the roof. The house was unharmed,
and all within it were safe. Jean Cahasse,
the aubergiste, told the neighbours that
neither he nor any of the others had heard
any unusual noise in the night, though he
fancied he remembered something like a clap
of thunder. But, in the morning he awoke
and said, "Wife, it is very dark, and yet I
seem to have had a long sleep. It must
surely be time to get up." So, he carried his
watch to the window, intending to open the
outer shutters. But he could not move them.
He went down to the house-door; fast again,
in spite of all his pushing. Then up to the
trap-door in the roof; and, finding that he
could not lift it, he returned to his wife and
said, "Wife, the avalanche has fallen; so you
had better get up and make the breakfast."

After breakfast all the men took out their
knitting, hanging the skein of wool round
their necks; the women and children were
busy spinning flax, and thus they sat round the
fire telling tales of past dangers till the
evening. Then Jean Cahasse said,

"I am sure the neighbours would begin to
dig as soon as it was light—but, doubtless,
the snow lies deep. Wife, if the onion-soup
is ready, we will have supper."

It was whilst they were at supper that
the neighbours entered, and were greeted, of
course, with much effusion; tears, and kisses,
and loud cries, and altogether in the manner
of men who suddenly became aware that
they had escaped a great danger, and did not
think it worth while to exercise any self-control
in the matter. Except the life of poor
Jules no lives were lost, and no further
damage was done than some four or five stone
houses levelled, and all the wooden baraques
swept away.