plateau where he found himself in the
hope of discovering some outlet; but the sole outlet he could discover
had already been monopolized by a mountain-torrent whose troubled waters
noisily precipitated themselves through it to the depths below. This
torrent was much too wide to wade, and to think of leaping over it would
have been preposterous. All retreat being cut off, M. Moriaz began to
regret his audacity. Seized by a sudden agony of alarm, he began to ask
himself if he was not condemned to end his days in this eagle's-nest; he
thought with envy of the felicity of the inhabitants of the plains; he
cast piteous glances at the implacable wall whose frowning visage seemed
to reproach him with his imprudence. It seemed to him that the human
mind never had devised anything more beautiful than a great highway;
and it would have taken little to make him exclaim with Panurge, "Oh,
thrice--ay, quadruply--happy those who plant cabbages!"

Although there seemed small chance of his being heard in this solitude,
he called aloud several times; he had great difficulty in raising his
voice above the noise of the cataract. Suddenly he believed that he
heard below him a distant voice replying to his call. He redoubled his
cries, and it seemed to him that the voice drew nearer, and soon he saw
emerging from the thicket bordering the opposite bank of the torrent a
pale face with chestnut beard, which he remembered having beheld in the
cathedral at Chur, and to have seen again at Bergun.

"You are a prisoner, monsieur," was the salutation of Count Larinski;
for, of course, the newcomer was none other than he. "One moment's
patience, and I am with you." And his face beamed with joy. He had him
at last, this precious game which has caused him so many steps.

He turned away, bounding from rock to rock with the agility of a
chamois. In about twenty minutes he reappeared, bearing on his shoulder
a long plank which he had detached from the inclosure of a piece of
pasture-land. He threw it across the torrent, secured it as well as he
could, crossed this impromptu foot-bridge of his own device, and joined
M. Moriaz, who was quite ready to embrace him.

"Nothing is more perfidious than the mountains," said the count. "They
are haunted by some mysterious sprite, who fairly delights in playing
tricks with venturesome people; but 'all's well that ends well.' Before
setting out from here you need something to revive you. The rarefied
atmosphere