It was succeeded by
a crash like the roar of massed artillery. The walls trembled. Some
particles of mortar rattled noisily to the floor. A strange sound of
rending, followed by a heavy thud, suggested something more tangible
than thunderbolts. Bower kicked the door and it swung inward.

"An avalanche," he said. "Probably a rockfall too. Of course, the hut
stands clear of the track of unpleasant visitors of that description."

Helen had not expected this courageous bearing in a man of Bower's
physical characteristics. Hitherto she had regarded him as somewhat
self indulgent, a Sybarite, the product of modernity in its London
aspects. His demeanor in the train, in the hotel, bespoke one
accustomed to gratify the flesh, who found all the world ready to
pander to his desires. Again she was conscious of that instinctive
trustfulness a woman freely reposes in a dominant man. Oddly enough,
she thought of Spencer in the same breath. An hour earlier, had she
been asked which of these two would command her confidence during a
storm, her unhesitating choice would have favored the American. Now,
she was at least sure that Bower's coolness was not assumed. His
attitude inspired emulation. She rose and went to the door.

"I want to see an avalanche," she cried. "Where did that one fall?"

Bower followed her. He spoke over her shoulder. "On Monte Roseg, I
expect. The weather seems to be clearing slightly. This tearing wind
will soon roll up the mist, and the thunder will certainly start
another big rock or a snowslide. If you are lucky, you may witness
something really fine."

A dazzling flash leaped over the glacier. Although the surrounding
peaks were as yet invisible through the haze of sleet and vapor,
objects near at hand were revealed with uncanny distinctness. Each
frozen wave on the surface of the ice was etched in sharp lines. A
cluster of seracs on a neighboring icefall showed all their mad chaos.
The blue green chasm of a huge crevasse was illumined to a depth far
below any point to which the rays of the sun penetrated. On the
neighboring slope of Monte Roseg the crimson and green and yellow
mosses were given sudden life against the black background of rock.
Every boulder here wore a somber robe. They were stark and grim. The
eye instantly caught the contrast to their gray-white fellows piled on
the lower moraine or in the bed of the Orlegna.

Helen was quick to note the new tone of black amid the vividly white
pat