e of Agordo, where the Lake of Alleghe slept unseen. It was a sea
of mountains, tossed around us into a myriad of motionless waves, and
with a rainbow of colours spread among their hollows and across their
crests. The cliffs of rose and orange and silver gray, the valleys of
deepest green, the distant shadows of purple and melting blue, and the
dazzling white of the scattered snow-fields seemed to shift and vary
like the hues on the inside of a shell. And over all, from peak to peak,
the light, feathery clouds went drifting lazily and slowly, as if they
could not leave a scene so fair.

There is barely room on the top of Nuvolau for the stone shelter-hut
which a grateful Saxon baron has built there as a sort of votive
offering for the recovery of his health among the mountains. As we sat
within and ate our frugal lunch, we were glad that he had recovered his
health, and glad that he had built the hut, and glad that we had come
to it. In fact, we could almost sympathise in our cold, matter-of-fact
American way with the sentimental German inscription which we read on
the wall:--

Von Nuvolau's hohen Wolkenstufen
Lass mich, Natur, durch deine Himmel rufen--
An deiner Brust gesunde, wer da krank!
So wird zum Volkerdank mein Sachsendank.

We refrained, however, from shouting anything through Nature's heaven,
but went lightly down, in about three hours, to supper in the Star of
Gold.

IV.

When a stern necessity forces one to leave Cortina, there are several
ways of departure. We selected the main highway for our trunks, but for
ourselves the Pass of the Three Crosses; the Deacon and the Deaconess
in a mountain waggon, and I on foot. It should be written as an axiom in
the philosophy of travel that the easiest way is best for your luggage,
and the hardest way is best for yourself.

All along the rough road up to the Pass, we had a glorious outlook
backward over the Val d' Ampezzo, and when we came to the top, we looked
deep down into the narrow Val Buona behind Sorapis. I do not know just
when we passed the Austrian border, but when we came to Lake Misurina
we found ourselves in Italy again. My friends went on down the valley to
Landro, but I in my weakness, having eaten of the trout of the lake for
dinner, could not resist the temptation of staying over-night to catch
one for breakfast.

It was a pleasant failure. The lake was beautiful, lying on top of the
mountain like a bit of blue sky, s