There must be men like that--almost.

And I--like you still, Pierre." "Really ?" "I almost think I like you more--because you could kill a man--and then stay here for me." "If you were a grown-up girl, do you know what I'd say ?" "Please tell me." "That I could love you." "Pierre--" "Yes." "My name is Mary Brown." He repeated several times: "Mary." "And if I were a grown-up girl, do you know what I would answer ?" "I don't dare guess it." "That I could love you, Pierre, if you were a grown-up man." "But I am." "Not a really one." And they both broke into laughter--laughter that died out before a sound of rushing and of thunder, as a mass slid swiftly past them, snow and mud and sand and rubble.

The wind fell away from them, and when Pierre looked up he saw that a great mass of tumbled rock and soil loomed above them.
The landslide had not touched them, by some miracle, but in a moment more it might shake loose again, and all that mass of ton upon ton of stone and loam would overwhelm them.

The whole mass quaked and trembled, and the very hillside shuddered beneath them.
She looked up and saw the coming ruin; but her cry was for him, not herself.
"Run, Pierre--you can save yourself." With that terror threatening him from above, he rose and started to run down the hill.

A moan of woe followed him, and he stopped and turned back, and fought his way through the wind until he was beside her once more.
She was weeping.
"Pierre--I couldn't help calling out for you; but now I'm strong again, and I won't have you stay.