"I offer you to-morrow," he said. "I am in no hurry. Have I not waited sixteen years? But it may be that you are tortured by a devil, Marcus Bauer. Shall it be now?" The clean-souled peasant believed that the millionaire had a conscience. Not yet did he understand that balked desire is stronger than any conscience. It really seemed that nothing could withhold these two from mortal struggle then and there. Spencer was regarding them curiously; but they paid no heed to him. Bower's tongue was darting in and out between his teeth. The red blood surged to his temples. Stampa was still smiling. His lips moved in the strangest prayer that ever came from a man's heart. He was actually thanking the Madonna--mother of the great peacemaker--for having brought his enemy within reach! "Mr. Bower!" came Helen's voice from the door of the _cabane_. "Why don't you join us? And you, Mr. Spencer? Stampa, come here and eat at once." "To-morrow, at ten? Or now?" the old man whispered again. "To-morrow--curse you!" Stampa twisted himself round. "I am not hungry, _fraeulein_," he cried. "I ate chocolate all the way up the glacier. But do you be speedy. We have lost too much time already." Bower brushed past, and the guide stooped to recover his ice ax. Spencer, though troubled sufficiently by his own disturbing fantasies, did not fail to notice their peculiar behavior. But he answered Helen with a pleasant disclaimer. "Christian kept his hoard a secret, Miss Wynton. I too have lost my appetite," said he. "Once we start we shall hardly be able to unpack the hamper again," said Helen. The American was trying her temper. She suspected that he carried his hostility to the absurd pitch of refusing to partake of any food provided by Bower. It was a queer coincidence that Spencer harbored the same notion with regard to Stampa, and wondered at it. "I shall starve willingly," he said. "It will be a just punishment for declining the good things that did not tempt me when they were available." Bower poured out a quantity of wine and drank it at a gulp. He refilled the glass and nearly emptied it a second time. But he touched not a morsel of meat or bread. Helen, fortunately, attributed the conduct of the men to spleen. She ate a sandwich, and found that she was far more ready for a meal than she had imagined. Stampa's broad frame darkened the doorway. He told Karl not to burden himself with anything save the cutlery. Now that he was the skilled guide again, the leader in whom they trusted, his worn face was animated and his voice eager. Helen heard Spencer's exclamation without. "By Jove, Stampa! you are right! Here comes the snow." "Quick, quick!" cried Stampa. "_Vorwaertz_, Barth. You lead. Stop at my call. Karl next--then the _fraeulein_ and my monsieur. Yours follows, and I come last." "No, no!" burst out Bower, lowering a third glass of wine from his lips.