"Ah," said I, "H., how foolish you were! You don't know what a sight
you have lost."
"Yes," said she, "all C. thinks mountains are made for is to roll
stones down."
"And all H. thinks trees made for," said I, "is to have ugly pictures
made of them."
"Ay," she replied, "you wanted me to stand on the very verge of the
precipice, and see two foolish boys roll down stones, and perhaps make
an avalanche of themselves! Now, you know, C., I could not spare you;
first, because I have not learned French enough yet; and next, because
I don't know how to make change."
"Add to that," said I, "the damages to the _bergers_ and flocks."
"Yes," she added; "no doubt when we get back to the inn we shall have
a bill sent in, 'H. B. S. to A. B., Dr., to one shepherd and six
cows, - fr.'"
And so we chatted along until we reached the _auberge_, and,
after resting a few moments, descended into the frozen sea.
Here a scene opened upon us never to be forgotten. From the distant
gorge of the everlasting Alpine ranges issued forth an ocean tide, in
wild and dashing commotion, just as we have seen the waves upon the
broad Atlantic, but all motionless as chaos when smitten by the mace
of Death; and yet, not motionless!
