disagreeable humiliation. That confounded peasant developed a
parental solicitude. After each crossing he waited, and presently
began to offer advice and encouragement. At last came a place where
everything was overhanging, where the Bisse was leaking, and the
plank wet and slippery. The water ran out of the leak near the brim
of the wooden channel and fell in a long shivering thread of silver.
THERE WAS NO SOUND OF ITS FALL. It just fell--into a void. Benham
wished he had not noted that. He groaned, but faced the plank; he
knew this would be the slowest affair of all.

The peasant surveyed him from the further side.

"Don't be afraid!" cried the peasant in his clumsy Valaisian French,
and returned, returning along the plank that seemed quite
sufficiently loaded without him, extending a charitable hand.

"Damn!" whispered Benham, but he took the hand.

Afterwards, rather ignobly, he tried to explain in his public-school
French. "Pas de peur," he said. "Pas de peur. Mais la tete, n'a
pas l'habitude."

The peasant, failing to understand, assured him again that there was
no danger.

("Damn!")

Benham was led over all the other planks, he was led as if he was an
old lady crossing a glacier. He was led into absolute safety, and
shamefacedly he rewarded his guide. Then he went a little way and