CHAPTER XIX.

THE DEVIL’S PARADE

At first the way across the undulating virgin snowfield, upon which here and there showed dark, jagged lines--those terrible fissures in the ice--looked easy, and Sibell, in her ignorance, wondered why the dark-spectacled Amacher, with his coil of slack rope in his hand and bending intent upon his path, should carefully prick the snow with his axe and feel what seemed always to be firm ground.

She was next to him, about four yards behind, with Brinsley third, and Mr. Mitchell and Hans following. On every hand she heard from deep down below the rippling of water, the slow melting of the eternal ice which ran into the dark, deep-cut valley of the Trummelbach, that mysterious narrow split in the mountains which leads away through Lauterbrunnen, where the stream has, through countless ages, fed the deep lake of Brienz, and which, in due course, through the fast-flowing Aar, feeds the mighty Rhine across Europe to the Dutch coast.

The two Alpine guides, their eyes painful because of the constant sun-glare, presented a goggled appearance as Amacher every now and then halted, retraced his steps carefully, whereupon the others turned and went backward until he again struck out at a different angle.

Below, the lovers heard ominous crackings as the ice, ever-shifting day and night in all the seasons, slowly moved towards the valley, at one season going down and at the other shrinking and remaining nearly where it was in the season before.

For nearly two hours they went along, their progress being very slow, but Fritz Amacher never took undue risks. The safety of those in his charge was always his first consideration. Dozens of tales were related in the little cafés in the mountain villages of his courage and heroism out on the mountains; of his experience with two young Englishmen in winter when, overtaken by a blizzard, they were compelled to spend the night under a rock on the other side of the glacier, and only because he gave them his own rations of food and red wine, and starved himself, were they able to exist until the dawn.

Gordon Mitchell had heard many stories of his gallant heroism, and how often he had faced death, while nearly as many stories were told of Hans Stutz. Indeed, Alpine guides are recognized all over the world as the finest and most reliable type of Europe.

They had been walking for over two hours, often taking wide turns to avoid those deep fissures in the ice which yawned to mysterious darkness.

Sometimes Amacher would hurl a big stone into one of them, when it could be heard bounding from side to side of the crevasse, long after it had disappeared into the darkness down hundreds of feet into the abyss.

Presently he paused and looked around, as though puzzled. They had wandered upon a spot surrounded on all sides by open fissures, and, though the guide went to and fro, he could not discover again the narrow snow-ridge over which they had crossed, and which was evidently the entrance to what was an impasse.

His keen eye, however, discovered a spot where two big open crevasses were joined by only a narrow, jagged gap, which was as deep as the rest, and there remained nothing for it but to descend and cut steps in the side of the glacier to the narrowest point where they could swing themselves across.

For him and Stutz it was mere child’s play, but to the inexperienced, horrifying and perilous.

Gordon Mitchell, as a practised Alpinist, at once realized Amacher’s intention. At the guide’s order all held the rope taut while he descended, and, swinging his axe, deftly and quickly cut deep steps in the ice, sprang across to the opposite side, and then cut two steps, which enabled him to climb to the opposite edge of the ice-wall.

Planting himself well back, he took up the slack of rope and then called to Sibell to follow.

“Go slowly, miss,” he cried. “Have your ice-axe ready, and grip the edge with it, as I did,” he urged. “Very slowly down, and you’ll find it quite easy,” he cried. “We’ve got hold of you. You can’t fall.”

“Oh, I’m so terrified!” cried the girl breathlessly, for, indeed, the appearance of that dark, grey-green, yawning abyss open to an unknown depth was sufficient to strike terror to the heart of any novice.

“Keep cool, dear!” cried Brinsley. “I’m holding you.”

Thus encouraged, the girl turned her face boldly to the descending wall of ice and, kneeling, drove the head of her axe deeply into the ice, and slowly lowered herself by its shaft until her foot touched the step. Then, slowly again, she descended to the next step, and, without daring to glance into the fatal depths below, she swung herself across, helped by Amacher’s rope, to the opposite side of the great fissure, and then clambered up, helping herself with her axe to scramble to the top.

“There!” she cried triumphantly, waving her axe to her lover. “That was all right, wasn’t it?”

“Bravo!” cried the old artist. “Most excellent! Very plucky indeed!”

“Now, Brin!” she cried. “It’s your turn. I’ll hold you.”

But Amacher advanced to the rope between her and her lover, saying in a kindly tone:

“No, miss. You must allow me”; and, taking an expert hitch with the rope, he leant back and held it taut while the young doctor emulated the feat of his fiancée.

He managed to descend safely, but in swinging across to the other side of the crevasse his foot slipped, and next instant he was held dangling on the rope, held fast in readiness by the guide and Mr. Mitchell.

Sibell shrieked when she saw his peril, but Alpine ropes are made of the best hemp, and are as carefully attended to in the guide’s chalet as is his own bed, therefore there is no danger of snapping under any sudden strain.

For a few seconds Otway, thoroughly alarmed, of course, and winded by the sudden strain of the rope upon him, struggled, but quickly he regained his foothold, and was soon hauled up by the ever-watchful Amacher.

For a few moments he could not breathe, but the Swiss guide supported him, took some brandy from his rucksack, and made him swallow it, and in a few minutes he was all right again.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, as soon as he could gain breath, while Sibell still held his arm. “I don’t want that experience again! I thought I’d gone! My foot slipped from the step.”

“Never mind,” laughed Amacher in his cheery way, peering at him through his dark glasses. “You’re over all right.”

Afterwards the guide shouted across:

“Come on, Herr Mitchell!”

And, taking the rope from the young man, he held it while the practised climber came nimbly down, crossed, and clambered up to them. And afterwards the tall Hans swung himself over without the slightest difficulty.

They soon resumed their way, walking in Indian file as before; Amacher testing every yard of the way with his axe, now and then halting and turning to avoid danger, until at last they found themselves upon a part of the glacier which he knew was free from crevasses, so they halted, opened their rucksacks, and finished their luncheon, which all found very welcome, especially the cakes of plain chocolate without which no Alpine lunch is complete.

Afterwards, the winter sun declining, they set their faces towards the distant moraine--débris of stones and rock brought down by the glacier through the ages--to the spot whence they had started, arriving there just as the pale-rose afterglow began to tint the high-up snows of the towering Jungfrau.

Before dusk they were back, warming themselves by the welcome log-fire of the hotel, the lovers thrilled by their first experience upon a glacier.

“I wouldn’t have missed to-day for worlds!” Sibell declared enthusiastically, and then, when they were alone, she whispered: “Brin, when we are married, let us come up here, high above the earth and far from the haunts of men, for our honeymoon. Think how lovely it is here, face to face with Nature in a land unspotted by the hand of man. I love it--every moment of it!”

“Yes, my darling,” he said, kissing her fondly upon her lips.

Suddenly, as he held her in his arms, he felt her shiver.

“I hope you haven’t caught a chill, darling!” he said anxiously. “You’re cold!”

“No, really I’m not, Brin. I honestly am not. I just shivered. I don’t know why. That’s all.”

But in her heart she knew why. At that moment of her enthusiasm for the high Alps a black shadow had fallen across her memory.

Her thought was of that elegant masked cavalier who had disclosed to her a secret which that cryptic message in _The Times_ had ordered her to conceal from the man she loved.

There was a plot to part them! Could they ever be parted? Was not her whole future life bound up in Brin’s? Was he not all in all to her?

Ten minutes later, in the privacy of her little room where she had gone to change from her mountain clothes, she locked the door, and, falling upon her knees beside her bed, prayed earnestly for deliverance from the hand of her unknown enemy.

Next morning Mr. Mitchell, expert skier that he was, took Amacher with him from the Scheidegg down to Grindelwald, where they had early tea at Frau Wolter’s, or, rather, the commodious place which once belonged to the popular old lady, now, alas! dead.

That night he met the lovers at the Hôtel du Lac in Interlaken, the comforts of which are so well known to every winter-sports visitor to the Bernese Oberland, and next day they returned to Gurnigel.

Five days later they bade farewell to their friend Mr. Mitchell, and, the winter sports season being practically over, they travelled to Milan by the Simplon, and thence by the _train-de-luxe_ which took them by way of Genoa, San Remo, and Ventimiglia along through the palms and olives to Cannes.

In Milan they had received a telegram from Sibell’s aunt to say that she had been unwell with a mild attack of influenza, suggesting that they should go to the Beau Site until she was well enough to travel and go into residence at the villa.

They obeyed the injunction, and found the sunshine and brightness of the Riviera delightful, but even on the first day after their arrival Sibell declared that the high Alps, with their wonderful germ-free atmosphere, were far more congenial than the gaiety, the artificiality, the gambling, and the vice of the much-vaunted Côte d’Azur.

It was true that she met several people she knew in that fine hotel which is the rendezvous of the best tennis-players in the world, but somehow she never seemed to have Brin to herself as she had had him in Gurnigel, amid those marvellous and romantic forest walks and extensive ski-ing fields.

To Brinsley Otway the reckless life of the Riviera was a novelty, hence she constituted herself his guide. Carnival was in full swing in Nice, so twice they went over, once to the famous ball, and once to the first Battle of Flowers, and on both occasions they had a most hilarious time.

Then she took him several times to Monte Carlo, where she initiated him into the intricacies of roulette and _trente-et-quarante_. Both risked modest stakes, of course, but neither won. Therefore, beyond sight of the crowds in the stuffy, unventilated rooms, the Casino did not appeal very much to either of them.

One Sunday morning, having left Cannes for Monte Carlo early, they took their cocktails in front of the Café de Paris, and afterwards went for an idle stroll in the sunshine along the world-famed Terraces.

It was eleven o’clock, the hour of the Sunday parade, and Sibell was dressed as smartly as any. All types were there--the newly rich in great plebeian force, swindlers, rogues, peers, and flappers, some women half bare and others wrapped in furs--not because it was cold, but the furs were expensive and must be exhibited--a multicolored stream which below showed a continuous flicker of light stockings and shoes, and above a struggling crowd of gaudy sunshades. From flappers in sky-blue to painted Jezebels of every age to eighty; from typical French artists in broad-brimmed hats, flowing cravats, and peg-top trousers, to staid English business men, members of Parliament, and prosperous share swindlers; from athletic young English girls with complexions that required no rouge, to dozens of overdressed, bejewelled women of all ages and all nationalities, whose names were notorious all over Europe, all were chatting together, rubbing shoulders, and enjoying the brilliant sunshine.

“This, I should take it, is the most cosmopolitan and best-dressed crowd in the world,” remarked Otway as three laughing young French girls, Parisiennes of the ultra-modern type, pushed past him in the crowd.

“Most interesting, aren’t they?” she agreed.

At that moment a well-dressed man in grey passed them, walking with a self-absorbed look, his hands behind his back and taking notice of no one. Yet, if the truth were known, he was the great François Lebeau, one of the most famous of European police officials, and his presence there denoted that observation was being kept upon some rogue or criminal lured there by the strange fascination the place always exercises over evil-doers.

Too intent in conversation were the lovers to notice that, as the man in grey passed by, he lifted his dark eyes with a momentary glance of inquiry, and then lowered them again.

On one side of that processional way, where vice flaunts on every Sabbath from eleven till half-an-hour past noon, rose a bank of palms, shrubs, and cacti, with masses of red and yellow blossoms, scented heliotropes, mimosa, and festoons of climbing geraniums, with the wonderful façade of the Casino rising high above, while on the other, beyond the white balustrade, lay, deep down, the azure sea, calm and unruffled, with the big white steam-yachts and a giant pleasure-liner lying at anchor in the little territorial waters of His Highness Prince Rouge-et-Noir.

Sibell and Brinsley were, that sunny morning, childishly happy in their own perfect love, yet had the girl but known the identity of a stranger who, having encountered them, seemed to have suddenly become interested, she would have surely again reflected upon that strange warning uttered by her masked cavalier.

The man who passed and repassed them closely several times was short of stature, with soft white hair, dressed in black, with a grey felt hat, and wore a heavy gold watch-chain. His appearance was that of a scholar, perhaps a bookworm, but something of a dandy. He carried a malacca cane, and from his neck wore a horn-rimmed monocle suspended by a rather broad black ribbon. Patent leather shoes, white spats, and yellow gloves completed his dress.

Had the caretaker at the Guest House at Hampton Court been alive, he would have instantly identified him as the mysterious Mr. Bettinson, the man who had uttered those strange incantations in the house of evil.