The change was so unexpected, and yet so complete, that the whole party checked their mules, and sat looking up at the millions of flakes that were descending on their heads, with more wonder and admiration than fear.  A shout from Pierre first aroused them from this trance, and recalled them to a sense of the real state of things.  He was standing on a knoll, already separated from the party by some fifty yards, white with snow, and gesticulating violently for the travellers to come on.

“For the sake of the Blessed Maria! quicken the beasts,” he cried; for Pierre, like most who dwell in Valais, was a Catholic, and one accustomed to bethink him most of his heavenly mediator when most oppressed with present dangers; “quicken their speed, if ye value your lives!  This is no moment to gaze at the mountains, which are well enough in their way, and no doubt both the finest and largest known,” (no Swiss ever seriously vituperates or loses his profound veneration for his beloved nature,) “but which had better be the humblest plain on earth for our occasions than what they truly are.  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.

“Cover thyself, good Pierre, I pray thee:”  urged the Genoese in a tone of repentance.  “I have shown the intemperance of a boy, and intemperance of a quality that little becomes my years.  Thou art the best judge of the circumstances in which we are placed, and thou alone shalt lead us.”