The spring, it will be remembered, was a cold one in 1870, and the snow lay late that year.

At last, on turning a corner, we saw about two miles ahead of us a black form on the white ground, and I confess my heart stood still.
Alphonse, who had no breath for words, grasped my arm, and we stood for a moment watching Miste, for it could be no other.

The sun was shining on the great snow-field, and the man's figure was the one dark spot there.

He was evidently tired, and made but slow progress.
"I am not going to lose him now," I said to Alphonse.

"If you cannot keep up with me, say so, and I will go on alone." "You go at your own pace," answered the Frenchman, with admirable spirit, "and I will keep up till I drop.