I was in Piedmont, at the little village of Bardonnechia, a quaint, rural place comprising a few picturesque chalets, an inn, and a church with a bulgy spire, which nestles in the fertile valley at the foot of the towering, snow-capped Mont Cenis. I was staying at the inn, and I wished to go to Lanslebourg, on the opposite side of the mountain, intending to travel thence by diligence to Grenoble, where I had arranged to meet some friends. But I needed a guide. The by-paths in the Cottian Alps are rough and intricate, and he would be a daring spirit who would venture to cross the Cenis alone away from the beaten track. There was not a single mule to be hired, and the only guide I could find refused to carry my valise, so I was in danger of missing my appointment. I could, of course, have gone by train through the tunnel to Modane, but that route would have taken me many miles out of my way, therefore I had decided upon the shorter road. At evening, while I stood at dusk at the door of the inn, looking anxiously to see whether any guide or porter had returned from the mountains the innkeeper told me he had found a man. "Does he come from the valley?" I asked. "No, signore; from the mountains." "Impossible? I should have seen him. I have been watching the path for an hour." "This man does not follow the same path as the others." "Why?" But my host vouchsafed no further explanation; he only called with a loud voice, "Giovanni!" The guide appeared. He was tall, muscular, and rather strange-looking, about thirty years old, the wrinkles of his face giving an expression of hard and energetic will. He had a large, straight nose, wide mouth, thick, bushy black hair, and a beard of several days' growth, while in his cap he wore a sprig of freshly-plucked edelweiss. I invited him into my room, but he shrugged his shoulders. "You wish to go to Lanslebourg, over the Cenis?" he said. "Yes." "Very well; give me ten lire." The price was very moderate, but the fellow struck me as a swaggerer. Instinctively I did not like him. "Where is your licence? Are you a regular guide?" I asked. "I have no licence, but I have a certificate of honourable discharge. I was in the Fourth Regiment of Artillery." "And your name?" "Do you want to know all this for ten lire?" and he began to laugh sarcastically. "Very well; I will tell you my name gratis. I am called Giovanni Oldrini. Has the cross-examination concluded?" Seeing that his smile displeased me, he immediately changed his expression, and added emphatically-- "Ask the landlord about me; he will tell you. _Buona sera_." And he turned and left me abruptly. At four o'clock next morning we set out. He tied my valise on his back, took his alpenstock, and set off nimbly, whistling a popular _chansonette_. His gait was peculiar. His step made no sound; he seemed to glide along.