"Marcus Bauer," he said in a voice that was terrible by reason of its restraint. Bower wheeled suddenly. He did not flinch. His manner suggested a certain preparedness. Thus might a strong man face a wild beast when hope lay only in the matching of sinew against sinew. "That is not my name," he snarled viciously. "Marcus Bauer," repeated Stampa in the same repressed monotone, "I am Etta's father." "Why do you address me in that fashion? I have never before seen you." "No. You took care of that. You feared Etta's father, though you cared little for Christian Stampa, the guide. But I have seen you, Marcus Bauer. You were slim then--an elegant, is it not?--and many a time have I hobbled into the Hotel Mont Cervin to look at your portrait in a group lest I should forget your face. Yet I passed you just now! Great God! I passed you." A ferocity glared from Bower's eyes that might well have daunted Stampa. For an instant he glanced toward Spencer, whose clear cut profile was silhouetted against a background of white-blue ice now gleaming in a constant flutter of lightning. Stampa was not yet aware of the true cause of Bower's frenzy. He thought that terror was spurring him to self defense. An insane impulse to kill, to fight with the nails and teeth, almost mastered him; but that must not be yet. "It is useless, Marcus Bauer," he said, with a calmness so horribly unreal that its deadly intent was all the more manifest. "I am the avenger, not you. I can tear you to pieces with my hands when I will. It would be here and now, were it not for the presence of the English _signorina_ who saved me from death. It is not meet that she should witness your expiation. That is to be settled between you and me alone." Bower made one last effort to assert himself. "You are talking in riddles, man," he said. "If you believe you have some long forgotten grievance against one of my name, come and see me to-morrow at the hotel. Perhaps----" "Yes, I shall see you to-morrow. Do not dream that you can escape me. Now that I know you live, I would search the wide world for you. Blessed Mother! How you must have feared me all these years!" Stampa was using the Romansch dialect of the Italian Alps. Bower spoke in German. Spencer heard them indistinctly. He marveled that they should discuss, as he imagined, the state of the weather with such subdued passion. "Hello, Christian," he cried, "the clouds are lifting somewhat. Where is your promised snow?" Stampa peered up into Bower's face; for his twisted leg had reduced his own unusual height by many inches. "To-morrow!" he whispered. "At ten o'clock--outside the hotel. Then we have a settlement. Is it so?" There was no answer. Bower was wrestling with a mad desire to grapple with him and fling him down among the black rocks. Stampa crept nearer. A ghastly smile lit his rugged features, and his _pickel_ clattered to the broken shingle at his feet.