I did not believe him, and began to be greatly disquieted. He perceived it, and immediately became jovial and talkative. He knew me, he said-- he had asked the innkeeper about me. He knew that I was a journalist; it must be a fine trade for making money by the sackful. He knew city life, for he had lived in Turin, and he always read the _Secolo_--it was his favourite paper. He also knew that I had written novels--another gold mine. Writers of romance, he supposed, were always seeking adventure, and poking their noses in out-of-the-way corners, and inquiring into other people's business. Good! I was with him, and might meet with a strange experience presently. But I paid no attention to him. "You gentlemen come to the Alps for the fun of knowing what fatigue is," he said. "Ah! if you only knew what it was--how much a piece of bread costs!" He was eloquent and excitable, and spoke like a man believing himself to be followed by constant persecution. We had almost reached the summit, when suddenly we came upon a rough pillar built of pieces of rock piled together. "See!" he said; "there is the frontier mark." Then we continued walking a dozen paces or so, and were in France. Soon afterwards we recommenced our ascent to the summit, trudging through patches of melted snow. For about half an hour we continued our rough climb, when he halted, and, scanning the mountain cautiously, said-- "Come, follow me quickly!" "Where?" I asked. "This surely is not the road to Lanslebourg?" "Do not argue, but come with me," he said impatiently. "If you do not, it will be the worse for you!" he muttered between his teeth. Linking his arm in mine, he half dragged me along to what appeared to be the face of a perpendicular rock. We passed along a narrow passage behind a great boulder, and as we did so, my strange guide gave a shrill whistle. In a moment a cunningly-concealed door in the face of the rock opened and a wild-haired, black-bearded, brigandish-looking man emerged. I was alarmed, for I saw I had been entrapped. My guide uttered a few words in the Piedmontese _patois_, which I did not understand, whereupon the man who had opened the door exclaimed-- "The signore Inglese will please enter." I hesitated, but I saw that to refuse was useless, so together we went into a large dark cavern. The bolt of the door was shot back into its socket with an ominous sound, while our footsteps echoed weirdly through the distant recesses. The man took up a torch and guided us through intricate turnings, until at last we came to a door which he opened, and we found ourselves in a small natural chamber, with wonderful stalactites hanging from the roof. Two sinister-looking men, who were seated at a rough deal table drinking and playing dominoes, rose as we entered.