We gave these people up as hopeless, and Alphonse had the brilliant idea of applying at the post-office across the way. Here we found an intelligent man. Miste had arrived by the diligence. He had sent a telegram to Genoa. He had posted a letter; and, after a hurried breakfast at the hotel, he had set off half an hour ago by the bridle path to the Col di Finestra, alone and on foot. Chapter XXVI Above the Snow Line ".... le temps l'acheve." Before setting out we had a light breakfast at the Hotel des Alpes, where we were informed by several other persons, and on two further occasions by the waiter that the "patron" was deaf. Indeed, the village had no other news. The postmaster had ordered a carriage, which, however, could only take us two miles on our road, for this ceased at that distance, and only a bad bridle path led onward to Italy. Alphonse was by this time beginning to feel the effects of his long ride and sleepless night; for he had not closed his eyes, while I had snatched a priceless hour of sleep. Moreover, the hardships of the campaign had rendered him less equal to a sudden strain than a man in good condition. He kept up bravely, however, despite a great thirst which at this time assailed him, and sent him to the brook at the side of the path much too often for his good. We entered at once upon a splendid piece of mountain scenery, and soon left behind us the vivid green of the upper valley. To our left a sheer crag rose from the valley in one unbroken slope, and in front the mountains seemed to close and bar all progress. We had five thousand feet to climb from the frontier stone, and I anticipated having to accomplish the larger part of it alone. They had warned us that we should find eight feet of snow at the summit of the pass. Miste had assuredly been hard pressed to attempt such a passage alone, and bearing, as he undoubtedly did, a large sum of money. The man had a fine nerve, at all events; for on the other side he would plunge into the wildest part of northern Italy, where the human scum that ever hovers on frontiers had many a fastness. Villainy always requires more nerve than virtue. I meant, however, to catch Mr. Charles Miste on the French side of the Chapel of the Madonna di Finestra. We trod our first snow at an altitude of about five thousand feet. The spring, it will be remembered, was a cold one in 1870, and the snow lay late that year. At last, on turning a corner, we saw about two miles ahead of us a black form on the white ground, and I confess my heart stood still. Alphonse, who had no breath for words, grasped my arm, and we stood for a moment watching Miste, for it could be no other. The sun was shining on the great snow-field, and the man's figure was the one dark spot there. He was evidently tired, and made but slow progress. "I am not going to lose him now," I said to Alphonse. "If you cannot keep up with me, say so, and I will go on alone."