was
well known on the high Alps--years ago." She paused before she added
those concluding words. She was about to say "in your time," but the
substituted phrase was less personal, since the circumstances under
which Stampa ceased to be a notability in "the street" at Zermatt were
in her mind.

"God in heaven!" muttered the old man, passing a hand over his face as
though waking from a dream,--"God in heaven! can it be that my prayer
is answered at last?" He shambled out.

Spencer had waited to watch the almost continuous blaze of lightning
playing on the glacier. Distant summits were now looming through the
diminishing downpour of sleet. He was wondering if by any chance
Stampa might be mistaken. Bower stood somewhat apart, seemingly
engaged in the same engrossing task. The wind was not quite so fierce
as during its first onset. It blew in gusts. No longer screaming in a
shrill and sustained note, it wailed fitfully.

Stampa lurched unevenly close to Bower. He was about to touch him on
the shoulder; but he appeared to recollect himself in time.

"Marcus Bauer," he said in a voice that was terrible by reason of its
restraint.

Bower wheeled suddenly. He did not flinch. His manner suggested a
certain preparedness. Thus might a strong man face a wild beast when
hope lay only in the matching of sinew against sinew. "That is not my
name," he snarled viciously.

"Marcus Bauer," repeated Stampa in the same repressed monotone, "I am
Etta's father."

"Why do you address me in that fashion? I have never before seen you."

"No. You took care of that. You feared Etta's father, though you cared
little for Christian Stampa, the guide. But I have seen you, Marcus
Bauer. You were slim then--an elegant, is it not?--and many a time
have I hobbled into the Hotel Mont Cervin to look at your portrait in
a group lest I should forget your face. Yet I passed you just now!
Great God! I passed you."

A ferocity glared from Bower's eyes that might well have daunted
Stampa. For an instant he glanced toward Spencer, whose clear cut
profile was silhouetted against a background of white-blue ice now
gleaming in a constant flutter of lightning. Stampa was not yet aware
of the true cause of Bower's frenzy. He thought that terror was
spurring him to self defense. An insane impulse to kill, to fight with
the nails and teeth, almost mastered him; but that must not be yet.

"It is useless, Marcus Bauer," he said, with a calmness so horribly
u