Quicken the mules then, for the love of the Blessed
Virgin!"
"Thou betrayest unnecessary, and, for one that had needs be cool,
indiscreet alarm, at the appearance of a little snow, friend Pierre,"
observed the Signer Grimaldi, as the mules drew near the guide, and
speaking with a little of the irony of a soldier who had steeled his
nerves by familiarity with danger. "Even we Italians, though less used to
the frosts than you of the mountains, are not so much disturbed by the
change, as thou, a trained guide of St. Bernard!"
"Reproach me as you will, Signore," said Pierre turning and pursuing his
way with increased diligence, though he did not entirely succeed in
concealing his resentment at an accusation which he knew to be unmerited,
"but quicken your pace; until you are better acquainted with the country
in which you journey, your words pass for empty breath in my ears. This is
no trifle of a cloak doubled about the person, or of balls rolled into
piles by the sport of children; but an affair of life or death. You are a
half league in the air, Signor Genoese, in the region of storms, where the
winds work their will, at times, as if infernal devils wore rioting to
cool themselves, and where the stoutest limbs and the firmest hearts are
brought but too often to see and confess their feebleness!"
The old man had uncovered his blanched locks in respect to the Italian, as
he uttered this energetic remonstrance, and when he ended, he walked on
with professional pride, as if disdaining to protect a brow that had
already weathered so many tempests among the mountains.
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