She was remembering her former journey along this very road.

Then it had been night; now it was day.
Then she had been used to seek respite from her life in the shelter of her dreams.

Now the dreams were of no use, since what was real made them by comparison so pale and thin.

The blood ran strong and joyous in her veins to-day; and looking at her, Chayne sent up his prayers that they might not arrive in Chamonix too late.

To him as to her Walter Hine was a mere puppet, a thing without importance--so long as he lived.