"That one yonder, like a cathedral front with two towers."

The old bellringer shaded his eyes with one trembling hand, and peered
down the valley.

"Eh," he said, "it is some mountain on the Italian side."

"But what is it called?"

"Eh," he repeated, with a puzzled look, "who knows? I don't know that I
ever noticed it before."

Now it was a very singular mountain--one of the most singular and the
most striking that we saw throughout the tour. It was exactly like
the front of Notre Dame, with one slender aiguille, like a flagstaff,
shooting up from the top of one of its battlemented towers. It was
conspicuous from most points on the left bank of the Boita; but the best
view, as I soon after discovered, was from the rising ground behind
Cortina, going up through the fields in the direction of the Begontina
torrent.

To this spot we returned again and again, fascinated as much, perhaps,
by the mystery in which it was enveloped, as by the majestic outline of
this unknown mountain, to which, for want of a better, we gave the name
of Notre Dame. For the old bellringer was not alone in his ignorance.
Ask whom we would, we invariably received the same vague reply--it was
a mountain "on the Italian side." They knew no more; and some, like our
friend of the Campanile, had evidently "not noticed it before."