"Johann Klucker's cat has settled the dispute," said Bower gravely in English. "A squall it is,--a most suitable prediction for a cat,--and I am once more rehabilitated in your esteem, I hope?" A cold iridescence suddenly illumined the gloomy interior of the hut. It gave individuality to each particle of sleet whirling past the door. Helen thought that the sun had broken through the storm clouds for an instant; but Bower said quietly: "Are you afraid of lightning?" "Not very. I don't like it." "Some people collapse altogether when they see it. Perhaps when forewarned you are forearmed." A low rumble boomed up the valley, and the mountain echoes muttered in solemn chorus. "We are to be spared none of the scenic accessories, then?" said Helen. "None. In fact, you will soon see and hear a thunder storm that would have delighted Gustave Dore. Please remember that it cannot last long, and that this hut has been built twenty years to my knowledge." Helen sipped her coffee, but pushed away a plate set before her by Barth. "If you don't mind, I should like the door wide open," she said. "You prefer to lunch later?" "Yes." "And you wish to face the music--is that it?" "I think so." "Let me remind you that Jove's thunderbolts are really forged on the hilltops." "I am here; so I must make the best of it. I shall not scream, or faint, if that is what you dread." "I dread nothing but your anger for not having turned back when a retreat was possible. I hate turning back, Miss Wynton. I have never yet withdrawn from any enterprise seriously undertaken, and I was determined to share your first ramble among my beloved hills." Another gleam of light, bluer and more penetrating than its forerunner, lit the brown rafters of the _cabane_. It was succeeded by a crash like the roar of massed artillery. The walls trembled. Some particles of mortar rattled noisily to the floor. A strange sound of rending, followed by a heavy thud, suggested something more tangible than thunderbolts. Bower kicked the door and it swung inward. "An avalanche," he said. "Probably a rockfall too. Of course, the hut stands clear of the track of unpleasant visitors of that description." Helen had not expected this courageous bearing in a man of Bower's physical characteristics. Hitherto she had regarded him as somewhat self indulgent, a Sybarite, the product of modernity in its London aspects. His demeanor in the train, in the hotel, bespoke one accustomed to gratify the flesh, who found all the world ready to pander to his desires. Again she was conscious of that instinctive trustfulness a woman freely reposes in a dominant man. Oddly enough, she thought of Spencer in the same breath. An hour earlier, had she been asked which of these two would command her confidence during a storm, her unhesitating choice would have favored the American. Now, she was at least sure that Bower's coolness was not assumed. His attitude inspired emulation. She rose and went to the door.