reached a peasant’s hut, where they rested a short time. A little beyond the hut, the path winds along the edge of a fearful precipice, where it is so narrow, that there is not space for two feet to be placed together. But M. Meuron, preceded by Henri, crossed it in safety. As soon as he was once more on the broad path, he turned to gaze with awe and admiration on the lofty peak of the Eiger, which rises on the opposite side of the glacier with a formidable front, and Henri pointed out to his companion a round aperture, through which, twice in the year, the sun shines and lights up the church and cemetery of Grindelwald.
After a further ascent of two hours they reached Serenberg, where a goatherd’s hut tempted our travellers to repose for a time; M. Meuron shared his provisions with Henri and the owner of the hut, and conversed cheerfully and kindly with them both. The herd accompanied them some distance from his habitation, leaving them about ten minutes before they reached the frightful abyss, from which this unfortunate young man was destined never to return. The width of the chasm which lay before them, in the glacier to which they had climbed, was about seven or eight feet, and its length from twelve to fifteen feet. M. Meuron continued to contemplate this wondrous icy well, and commented upon the difficulty of gauging its great depth. To give him an idea of the sound produced by throwing down some substance into the vast fissure, Henri went back a few paces in search of a stone: he stooped to pick up one, and on raising himself and turning round, to his terror and alarm he no longer perceived M. Meuron. He approached the chasm, but saw nothing, excepting the Alpen-stock, which, with its iron spike, was fixed in a fissure of the rock, a few feet below the brink. In a state of mind bordering on distraction, Henri went round the aperture, calling aloud with all his strength. Alas! no answer was returned! He could only conclude that in the brief interval of his turning back, M. Meuron had approached the very edge of the precipice to examine it more closely, had leaned upon his pole fixed in the manner described, and his feet slipping upon the ice, he had lost his balance, and thus fallen into the abyss. Who that has experienced the agony of witnessing a sudden and fatal accident, has not felt the wild despairing thought, “if the last five minutes could but be recalled?” To poor Henri came this cruel pain of unavailing regret. Help must be had; he would seek the nearest. With all speed he returned to Serenberg, in search of the goatherd, and they hastened together to the spot. All their cries were unresponded to, and their eyes strained in vain to discover some glimpses of the body.
Nothing could be done, but to carry the mournful intelligence to the valley and to the curé, who alone could communicate with the friends and family of M. Meuron. Henri redescended the path, accompanied by the goatherd,—that path which a few hours before he had taken with him who now lay senseless in an icy grave!
The sad tale was told! And now what could be done to recover the body, if, indeed, as they feared, life was extinct?
The curé lost no time in summoning four strong men from the village, and decided to ascend the glacier with them, Henri and the goatherd, in spite of the rain and the darkness of the evening, which was fast closing in.
After a rugged and tedious walk, they arrived at the fatal abyss. Its yawning mouth seemed indeed a sepulchre. But he was there, and although they ceased to hope for life, they must endeavour to recover his body. They had been obliged to use lanterns during the last half-hour of the ascent, and, lowering one from a cord, they kept their eyes attentively fixed upon the light, but no dark object met their view. They held their breath to listen, but the falling water of the cascade below was the only sound which met their ears. All present exertions were evidently ineffectual, and all felt the sorrowful necessity of retracing their steps to the valley. The next morning the curé’s first care was to communicate the sad event to the Government of Berne, and to the friends and relations of the deceased.
The exciting news spread rapidly from mouth to mouth in Grindelwald; and two or three guides, and some young men of the village, loitered all night at the sign of the Ours Noir (at that time its only inn), and discussed the event over and over again, each one giving his view of what had happened, and what remained now to be done. Everyone knows in a village, how the smallest event becomes exaggerated, and truth and facts are perverted. The awful and sudden disappearence of a fellow-creature, whom several of them had seen depart from the valley full of health and spirits in the early morning, naturally gave rise to all sorts of speculations. Alas, for human nature!—envy and ill-will found their place in the peaceful and beautiful Grindelwald. After many useless discussions as to how the event had happened, the suggestion was whispered, that there might have been foul play;—a rival of Henri Rochat, who envied the favour of pretty Justine Berthet, spoke out more boldly than the rest. Another bigoted and cynical neighbour, remarkable for his protracted genuflexions to his patron saint (who certainly did not encourage generous tempers), hinted that Protestants, he knew, were capable of any crime, if they could get anything by it, and that M. Meuron had a purse full of money and a gold watch upon his person, quite a sufficient temptation to rob and murder him in a silent spot like the Mer de Glace. Some two or three peasants would not relinquish their faith in Henri’s honour and probity, but they were silenced, and, before another morning dawned, poor Henri was a suspected murderer.
For himself, night having set in, he had returned almost heartbroken to his châlet. His grief relieved itself in words and tears, as he recounted to his sympathising mother all the events of the sad day. He dwelt upon his companion’s kindness and goodness, and again and again he detailed the agony he felt as he turned and found himself alone!
At length he yielded to Madame Rochat’s request to try and sleep; but he could not rest in the narrow wooden crib, with slanting roof—the peasant’s usual bed—and he longed for air. So,