Helen had just descended the long flight of steps in front of the hotel. A tender purple light filled the valley. The nearer hills were silhouetted boldly against a sky of primrose and pink; but the misty depths where the lake lurked beneath the pines had not yet yielded wholly to the triumph of the new day. The air had a cold life in it that invigorated while it chilled. It resembled some _vin frappe_ of rare vintage. Its fragrant vivacity was ready to burst forth at the first encouraging hint of a kindlier temperature. "Why that dubious clause as to the weather?" asked Helen, looking at the golden shafts of sunlight on the topmost crags of Corvatsch and the Piz della Margna. Those far off summits were so startlingly vivid in outline that they seemed to be more accessible than the mist shrouded ravines cleaving their dun sides. It needed an effort of the imagination to correct the erring testimony of the eye. "The moods of the hills are variable, my lady,--femininely fickle, in fact. There is a proverb that contrasts the wind with woman's mind; but the disillusioned male who framed it evidently possessed little knowledge of weather changes in the high Alps, or else he----" "Did you beguile me out of my cozy room at six o'clock on a frosty morning to regale me with stale jibes at my sex?" "Perish the thought, Miss Wynton! My only intent was to explain that the ancient proverb maker, meaning to be rude, might have found a better simile." "Meanwhile, I am so cold that the only mood left in my composition is one of impatience to be moving." "Well, I am ready." "But where is our guide?" "He has gone on in front with the porter." "Porter! What is the man carrying?" "The wherewithal to refresh ourselves when we reach the hut." "Oh," said Helen, "I had no idea that mountaineering was such a business. I thought the essentials were a packet of sandwiches and a flask." "You will please not be flippant. Climbing is serious work. And you must moderate your pace. If you walk at that rate from here to Forno, you will be very, very ill before you reach the hut." "Ill! How absurd!" "Not only absurd but disagreeable,--far worse than crossing the Channel. Even old hands like me are not free from mountain sickness, though it seizes us at higher altitudes than we shall reach to-day. In the case of a novice, anything in the nature of hurrying during the outward journey is an unfailing factor." They were crossing the golf links, and the smooth path was tempting to a good walker. Helen smiled as she accommodated herself to Bower's slower stride. Though the man might possess experience, the woman had the advantage of youth, the unattainable, and this wonderful hour after dawn was stirring its ichor in her veins. "I suppose that is what Stampa meant when he took 'Slow and Sure' for his motto," she said. "Stampa! Who is Stampa?"