"Ah, it is cold!" I flung open the hot-air register, but the fires were
out and the engineer asleep, for a draft of icy wind came up--direct
from the snowfields. I slammed it down, for the mercury in my
thermometer was falling so rapidly that I seemed to hear it tap-tapping
on the bottom of the scale.

Below there was a sleepy porter, who with the utmost gruffness produced
some lukewarm coffee, with stale, dry slices of over-night bread, and
flavoured the whole with an evil-smelling lamp.

"Shriekingly cold, Herr; yes, it is so in here!" he said in answer to my
complaints. "Yes--but, it is warm to what it will be up there outside."

The pack was donned. The double stockings, the fingerless woollen gloves
were put on, and the earflaps of the cap were drawn down. The door was
opened quietly, and the chill outer air met us like a wall.

"A good journey, my Herr!" said the porter, a mocking accent in his
voice--the rascal.

I strode from under the dark shadow of the hotel, wondering if Lucia was
asleep behind her curtains over the porch.




CHAPTER IX

THE PIZ LANGREV