Part 5

Franz placed a hand on Caesar's head and found in the massive dog the comfort he never failed to discover there. He and Caesar had faced many storms together, though none had been as terrible as this. But, as Father Benjamin had said, it was just a snowstorm.

Suddenly, Caesar left Franz's side, bounded ahead, hurled himself on Father Benjamin, seized the priest's habit in his great jaws, and pulled him over backwards.

For a moment, Franz stood petrified, too astonished to even move. The four travelers stared, unable at once to understand what had happened or what they were staring at.

Franz recovered his wits and ran forward. He knelt beside Father Benjamin and Caesar, who maintained a firm grip on the priest's robe, and shouted, "I'm sorry, Father Benjamin! I do not know why Caesar would do such a terrible thing!"

"Make him let me go!" Father Benjamin's voice was stern and indignant.

"Let go, Caesar!" Franz commanded. "Let go, I say!"

Caesar closed his eyes, took a firmer grip and dragged Father Benjamin six inches backwards through the snow. The angry priest turned to grapple with him.

There was a soft hissing, as though a thousand snowflakes had fallen on a hot stove all at the same time. A bridge of snow, upon which Father Benjamin would have walked had he taken one more forward step, fell in and revealed the yawning chasm across which it had formed.

Caesar released his grip on Father Benjamin's habit, sat down beside the priest, and licked his hand with an apologetic tongue.

"He knew!" Father Benjamin gasped. "That is why he pulled me back!"

Franz said, "Caesar always knows the safe trails."

"Then you should have told us so, little Franz," Father Benjamin said.

"I had not wanted to trespass upon your authority," the boy explained.

Father Benjamin said, "When lives are at stake, it is never a question of authority but one of common sense. Can Caesar guide us safely from here?"

Franz answered unhesitatingly, "Yes."

"Then let him lead."

Franz said, "Go, Caesar."

The great mastiff struck off at a thirty-degree angle to the course they had been following. He broke a drift with his massive shoulders.

"I am done," the old man wailed piteously. "Leave me and go on."

Father Benjamin said, "We will rest."

"I am truly spent!" the old man cried. "I cannot walk another step."

Franz staggered through a drift already broken by Caesar and groped with his hands. They found a brick wall.

It was the Hospice.

10: THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

Franz braced the sole of his shoe against the blade of his shovel, took a big bite of snow and threw it high above his head. Even cows, Anton Martek had told him--or especially cows--might lose their faith if they could never see daylight.

How could they see daylight if the windows of their stable were darkened by snow? And how could the snow be removed unless someone shoveled it away? Franz thought grimly that, at last, he knew why the handles of the shovels at St. Bernard Hospice were a full three feet longer than any in Dornblatt.

Caesar, lying on the snow six feet above the boy's head, wagged an amiable tail and grinned a canine grin. Franz glared at him.

"You might well smile!" he glowered. "You do no work at all! You refuse even to turn the spit!"

Caesar's tail wagged harder and his jaws parted a bit more. A little worm of worry gnawed at Franz's heart. Since the deep snows had started, except to go down to the rest house with Father Benjamin whenever it was the latter's turn to go, the mastiff had been idle.

Anton had worked patiently and endlessly to make him turn the spit--and he was still working at it. But Caesar had discovered a simple ruse that foiled the most cunning scheme Anton could devise; he merely lay down, wagged his tail, beamed agreeably and refused to move at all. Not even Anton cared to drag a hundred-and-fifty-pound dog around and turn the spit with him.

Franz looked beseechingly up at the big mastiff, who was still lying on the snow and interestedly observing his master.

"You should learn to do it!" he begged. "Father Benjamin already knows that you will not work! Soon Father Martin or Father Stephen will discover that Anton and I have been taking turns revolving the spit for you. They will inform one of the Canons, who is sure to tell the Prior. Then you will be sent away from the Hospice, which is entirely right and good and as it should be. The Fathers are not men of wealth, who can afford to maintain such a big, lazy loafer as yourself in idleness!"

Caesar wagged his tail a little harder, as though he were being complimented. Franz looked sternly at him, but could not find it in his heart to scold any more.

"It will be very right and very just if you are sent away," he said sadly, "but it will leave me so very lonesome. Caesar, you _must_ try!"

Franz turned back to his shoveling, fastening his heart and mind on the one ray of hope that remained to him. Since the day of the blizzard, when Caesar had brought them safely to the Hospice, Father Benjamin had emphatically declared that any dog able to do such a thing was priceless. But he was not going to be readily accepted.

There had been dogs at the Hospice since its founding; tradition said that Bernard de Menthon himself had had one. But tradition said also that it was the work of the priests and _maronniers_ at the Hospice to succor travelers. That was why only men born to the mountains and skilled in mountain arts could be accepted for service there.

It had been that way for seven hundred years, said Father Benjamin, and anything that has existed for seven centuries is not lightly discarded. Franz should be of good cheer, and while so being, though he needn't dishonestly conceal the fact that Caesar was doing no work, he needn't advertise it either. Gentle persuasion, according to Father Benjamin, was far more effective than raging or bullying when it came to breaking a wall of custom that was seven hundred years old.

Meanwhile, whenever it was Father Benjamin's turn to go down to either rest house, he would take Caesar with him. Sooner or later, he would prove the dog's value.

Franz sighed and dug his shovel blade into the last of the snow. Caesar had accompanied Father Benjamin on every trip. But on every trip Father Benjamin made, the weather had been so fine that there had been no need for a rescue or any other kind of work. Franz threw the last of the snow out of the hole, climbed out himself and at once slipped his feet into the skis that awaited him.

The snow at this altitude was hard and granular and not at all similar to the soft stuff that often covered the lower reaches. The hard snow, plus Caesar's huge paws, kept him from sinking more than a few inches, and he rose to greet his master with furiously-wagging tail. Franz caught up his shovel, smoothed the snow he had thrown out and turned to look about him.

The Grand St. Bernard Pass was indeed locked in the grip of winter, with snow piled high about the Hospice and drifts lying at intervals. But the day had started out very well, and Fathers Stephen and Martin had gone down to the rest houses on the north and south slopes, in order to bring up any travelers waiting there.

Franz turned uneasily on his skis. The day was still fine, but there were a few clouds where none had been earlier and an undercurrent that spoke of fury to be. It was a hint that only a born mountaineer could feel at all--but Franz resolutely banished his fears. Father Stephen had had three years of experience at the Hospice and Father Martin seven. They were well able to take care of themselves.

Franz moved to the stable door, slipped out of his skis and entered. Anton Martek, sitting on a pile of hay and honing an ax, looked up and grinned.

"Tomorrow," he prophesied, "you shall have all of it to do over again."

"So you sense the storm coming, too?" Franz asked.

"I sense nothing," Anton said serenely, "for to do so is very silly. I live for the moment that is, not the one that will be, and that proves me either a great fool or a very wise man. I do not know which and do not care, but anyone knows that snow may fall at any time now in Grand St. Bernard Pass. Therefore, it is evident that you will do your shoveling all over again tomorrow."

Franz said, "It is very great labor."

"It is life at the Hospice," returned Anton. He patted Caesar's massive head. "If you did not like the life, you would not be here. As for this great loafer, it is no wonder he enjoys it, for he has nothing whatever to do."

"If the Prior finds out," Franz said worriedly, "Caesar will not be living at the Hospice any more."

"Trust in God and Father Benjamin," Anton advised. "By the time the Prior discovers the supposed worthlessness of this mighty eater, Caesar's worth will be known."

"It should be known by this time," Franz pointed out. "Father Benjamin told of how Caesar prevented his falling into the crevasse and then found a safe path. Some of the Fathers smiled at him, for they said it was no great blizzard, anyhow."

"As it was not," Anton remarked.

Franz went on, "Some said it was God Who saved us."

"And do you doubt that it was?" Anton asked.

"No," Franz admitted, "but Caesar had something to do with it, too. Why cannot he be given due credit?"

"You have not learned the lesson of patience," Anton told him. "That is not surprising, because no youth has. I tell you everything will be all right."

"I hope so," Franz said gloomily. "Now, since all this thinking has pained me, I will clean the stable."

"A worthy endeavor," Anton said, "and one well calculated to remove your mind from your own troubles."

Caesar threw himself down on a pile of hay, pillowed his head on his paws and went to sleep. Franz started cleaning the stable. He sighed again. It would be nice if he were wise, like Father Benjamin or even like Anton, for then he would know so many things that otherwise he could never hope to know.

Since he was stupid and knew nothing except how to work with his hands, he must find contentment in such work. Presently he found it and became so absorbed in what he was doing that he was startled by Anton's voice, saying, "We must close the shutters, for it is starting to snow."

Franz looked up to discover that the stable, never bright as long as snow was heaped around the shutter openings, had grown noticeably dimmer. He hurried to help close the shutters. Anton lighted his candle lantern and hung it on the peg. With the shutters closed, the scream of the wind died to a soft moaning.

Caesar rose to pace beside Franz, as though in so doing he was somehow standing between his master and the storm. The four gentle cows, never doubting that they would be cared for, munched their hay. In the fitful light of the candle lantern, Anton's massive face looked strangely sober.

"It will be well for one of us to have his supper and then the other, little Franz," he said. "The storm will not grow less, and one of us should be here to reassure the cows if the wind screams too loudly. Do you want to go first?"

"No, you go," Franz urged.

"Very well."

The giant opened the stable door, braced against the wind, slipped into his skis, closed the door and was gone. Franz huddled very close to Caesar while the four cows stamped and munched. He shuddered, not in fear but with awe. This was what winter in St. Bernard Pass truly meant. The wind that sounded inside the stable as a doleful moan, was a screaming demon outside. A strong man would have to struggle just to stand against it.

Twenty minutes later, the stable door opened and Anton came back. He carried a bowl and a dish.

"I have brought your supper, little Franz, for you must remain here," he said. "There is very great trouble. Father Stephen has only now come into the refectory. He is almost spent. A traveler missing from the rest house has not arrived at the Hospice and Father Stephen has been searching for him."

"What now?" Franz asked, with some alarm.

Anton replied, "We all go, little Franz. The Fathers and the _maronniers_ alike, all search for that traveler until he is found. That is our only reason for being here."

"I will eat quickly and be ready at once," Franz said.

Anton smiled gently. "Not you, little Franz. You stay here."

"It was Caesar and I who found Emil Gottschalk!" Franz asserted. "We've searched for lost travelers before!"

"But never in St. Bernard Pass during a storm," Anton reminded him.

"Please--" Franz began.

Anton said shortly, "You stay here."

Anton left and Franz looked dejectedly at the closed stable door. He ate his supper and blew the candle out, for candles must not be wasted. A dozen times during the night he awakened, sure that Anton had returned.

But it was not until past noon of the following day, during a lull in the storm, that Anton did return. From the stable door Franz watched the giant _maronnier_ and two priests of the Hospice. All three were on skis and Anton carried a blanket-wrapped object that had the size and shape of a man. It couldn't possibly be a man, for men were not like that.

Franz watched with staring eyes as the three went to the House of the Dead. When they left it, Anton no longer carried his burden.

11: CAESAR'S SENTENCE

Before the storm spent itself, snow lay twelve feet deep in Grand St. Bernard Pass and some of the drifts were three times as deep. Every cliff and slope held a huge burden of snow, but it was not a burden willingly accepted. And the danger increased a hundred times over.

Enough snow to mold an ordinary snowball might be wind-blown and start more, which in turn gathered more. Finally, carrying boulders, ice and everything else that lay in its path, an all-destroying avalanche would roar down. Such avalanches were a daily occurrence on the peaks about the Hospice.

Franz stood in front of the stable, Caesar beside him. He was watching the sun glance from the surrounding peaks. Wherever it touched snow or ice, it gave back a reflection so dazzling that to face it for more than a few minutes meant to risk blindness. A million jewels, Franz thought, a hundred million jewels, and each one more brilliant than the brightest ornament in any emperor's crown.

The Hospice itself, with ski trails radiating in every direction, like the spokes of a giant wagon wheel, was banked high with snow. Except for the House of the Dead, toward which he looked only when he could not avoid doing so, Franz thought it the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

Anton Martek, sitting on a chair beside the stable's open door, fashioning a ski pole, did not look up from his work. A complete craftsman, regardless of whether he was honing an ax, making a ski pole, milking a cow, skiing, or doing anything else, Anton believed wholeheartedly that anything worth doing was worth doing well, and it could not be well done unless it received his undivided attention.

Presently, Franz saw a man leave the refectory and ski toward the stable. It was Father Mark, who smiled when he came near and said, "Good afternoon, Franz."

"And a very good afternoon to you, Father Mark," Franz replied. "Have the travelers come up?"

"Not yet," Father Mark told him. "But Fathers Stephen and Benjamin have gone down to guide them. On a day such as this, let us hope there will be no trouble."

"Let us hope so," Franz agreed.

He felt a pang of sorrow. Father Benjamin, who always took Caesar with him when he went down to the rest house, had not even told Franz he was going. But it was not his place, Franz reminded himself, to tell the Fathers what they should or should not do. If Father Benjamin had not asked for Caesar, it was because he did not want him.

Anton Martek stood up respectfully and said, "Good afternoon, Father Mark."

"And to you, Anton." Father Mark noted the half-finished ski pole. "Busy as usual, I see. Well, they do say Satan finds work for idle hands."

Anton said, "I fear he has found enough for mine."

"Tut, tut," Father Mark reproved. "You must not be gloomy on a day so fine. The Prior would speak with you."

"At once," Anton said.

He slipped into his skis and departed with Father Mark. Franz stared wistfully after them. He himself had seen the Prior, in the chapel or from a distance, but he had never dared even think of speaking with him. On those few occasions when their paths would have crossed, and they could not have avoided speaking, Franz had fled as swiftly as possible. Winter in St. Bernard Pass inspired awe, but it was not nearly as awe-inspiring as the Prior of St. Bernard Hospice.

Franz picked up and inspected the ski pole Anton was fashioning, and he tried to fix each detail exactly in his mind. Making proper skis or ski poles was more than just a craft. It was a very precise art, and one that Franz hoped to master some day. Good was not enough. In the Alps, who ventured out on skis took his life in his hands and must have perfection.

A few minutes later, Anton returned alone. He did not look at Franz when he said, "The Prior would talk with you."

"With me?" Franz said bewilderedly. "You," Anton said.

Franz protested, "But--I cannot talk with the Prior!"

"I fear you have no choice, little Franz," Anton told him. "The Prior awaits in the refectory."

Franz asked fearfully, "What does he want, Anton?"

"That you must discover for yourself," Anton replied.

Franz pleaded, "Go with me, Anton!"

"Yes," Anton said quietly, "I will go with you."

Franz put on his skis and, with Caesar trailing, they went to the refectory. The boy's head reeled. His heart fluttered like the wings of a trapped bird. At the entrance to the refectory, he could go no farther.

"Come, little Franz," Anton urged gently.

"Y-yes, Anton." Franz shivered.

Dressed in the habit of his order, the Prior sat before a pile of logs that smoldered in the huge fireplace. With him, and almost as hard to face, were two of the Canons, the Clavandier, whose task it was to watch over Hospice provisions, and two priests.

Franz clasped his hands behind him, so nobody could see them shake, and wished mightily that the floor would open up so he could sink through it.

"It is time we met, young _maronnier_," the Prior said. "I like to know all who share this work with me. But for some reason, we have never spoken."

"Y-yes, Most Holy Prior," Franz stammered.

"There is nothing to fear," the Prior said.

It was a very gentle voice and, when Franz took courage to look, he saw also that, though it was weather-scarred and storm-beaten, the Prior's was a very gentle face. The boy felt more at ease.

"I am not afraid," he said.

"That is good," the Prior approved. "I wear the Prior's habit and you are a _maronnier_, but, for all that, we are equal. I have received excellent reports of your diligence and industry. You are a credit to the Hospice."

"Thank you, Most Holy Prior," Franz said.

The Prior smiled, knowing that he should not be addressed in such a fashion but understanding why he was. He continued, "Now that we have finally met, I would that it were for a different reason. I fear that I have sad tidings for you."

"For me?" Franz's heart began to pound again.

"You have a dog," the Prior said, "a great dog that, according to our good Clavandier, eats a great amount of food. Yet, he does no work."

Franz whispered miserably, "That is true."

"Believe me, I understand what this dog means to you." The Prior was very gentle. "I hope to make you understand what the Hospice of St. Bernard means to wayfarers. Every ounce of food we have here is far more precious than gold. Without it, we could neither preserve our own lives nor provide for our guests. It is a harsh order that I must issue, Franz, but with the next travelers who are going there, your dog must be returned to your native village of Dornblatt."

For the moment, Franz was stricken speechless. Then he spoke wildly. "Please!" he begged. "Please do not send Caesar away, Most Holy Prior! It is true that he will not turn the spit, but he saved Father Benjamin from the crevasse! He guided all of us safely to the Hospice while a blizzard raged!"

"That tale I have heard," the Prior said, "and your Caesar surely deserves all praise. But, as you have surely seen for yourself, we have the welfare of travelers well in hand--"

Outside, someone shouted. Those inside looked questioningly toward the door and one of the priests rushed to open it. Looking out, Franz saw two men on skis. One was obviously injured. The other was helping to support him. The unhurt man was Father Benjamin.

The other was Jean Greb, from Franz's native Dornblatt.

12: JEAN'S STORY

Father Mark and Anton rushed to their skis and sped out to help the approaching pair. Father Benjamin surrendered Jean Greb to the mighty Anton, then knelt to undo the harness of Jean's skis. As though Jean, a big man, weighed no more than a baby, Anton Martek cradled him in his arms and carried him into the refectory. He laid him tenderly on a pallet that the Clavandier and one of the Canons had placed in front of the fire.

Franz hung fearfully in the background while the Prior himself, who was skilled in the healing arts, knelt beside the injured man and began to examine him. Jean had fought on while there was need for fighting. Now that the need no longer existed, unconsciousness came.

"I fear that there is no hope for this man's companion," Father Benjamin said in a low voice. "They were coming from the inn to the Hospice when an avalanche rolled down upon them. By a miracle alone, this man was thrown to the top. Not even his skis were broken, and when I discovered him, he was trying to find his companion. I thought it best, even though he protested, to bring him here with all possible speed."

"It was wise to do so," the Prior said quietly. "The snows have claimed many lives. Had you let this man continue to search for his friend, his life might have been lost, too."

"Is Jean badly hurt?" Franz asked huskily.

The Prior glanced up quickly. "Do you know this man, Franz?"

"He is Jean Greb, from my native village of Dornblatt," Franz answered. "He is a very good friend to my family and myself."

"Put your heart at ease." The Prior's slim fingers ceased exploring Jean's body. "There is very great shock, which is not at all extraordinary after one has been the victim of an avalanche. Aside from that, your friend seems to have suffered only a broken arm and some broken ribs. It will be less painful for him if we take the proper measures while he still sleeps."

Anton Martek, who had doubtless discovered Jean's broken arm while carrying him to the Hospice, was suddenly there with splints. Father Mark brought bandages, and all the rest stood silently near while the Prior set and splinted Jean's broken arm and bound his ribs.

Finished, the Prior reached for a flask of brandy that the Clavandier had brought from his stores. He forced a few drops between Jean's lips, waited a moment, then gave the injured man a few more drops.

Jean's eyelids fluttered. He turned his head to one side and moaned. Then he opened his eyes and stared blankly. The Prior knelt before him with a small glass of brandy. He cradled Jean's head with one arm.

"Drink," he said.

Jean sipped slowly, and as he did the color returned to his face and the life to his eyes. He nibbled his own lips. Then the shock faded and he returned to the world of rational beings. His eyes found Franz, and an agony that was born of no physical pain twisted his face.

"We came to see you, Franz," he said in a husky whisper, "and I was the guide. Alas, I was a very poor guide, for the one who engaged me still lies in the snow!"

"It was not your fault," the Prior soothed. "No man can foresee an avalanche."