You have
heard of the Bridge of the Ganther?"
"I have crossed it once."
"In the summer?"
"Yes; in the travelling season."
"Yes; but it is another thing at this season;" with a sneer, as though he
were out of temper. "This is not a time of year, or a state of things,
on an Alpine Pass, that you gentlemen holiday-travellers know much
about."
"You are my Guide," said Vendale, good humouredly. "I trust to you."
"I am your Guide," said Obenreizer, "and I will guide you to your
journey's end. There is the Bridge before us."
They had made a turn into a desolate and dismal ravine, where the snow
lay deep below them, deep above them, deep on every side. While
speaking, Obenreizer stood pointing at the Bridge, and observing
Vendale's face, with a very singular expression on his own.
"If I, as Guide, had sent you over there, in advance, and encouraged you
to give a shout or two, you might have brought down upon yourself tons
and tons and tons of snow, that would not only have struck you dead, but
buried you deep, at a blow."
"No doubt," said Vendale.
"No doubt. But that is not what I have to do, as Guide. So pass
silently. Or, going as we go, our indiscretion might else crush and bury
_me_. Let us get on!"
There was a great accumulation of snow on the Bridge; and such enormous
accumulations of snow overhung them from protecting masses of rock, that
they might have been making their way through a stormy sky of white
clouds.
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