The village contains about 700 souls, but the population of the Commune numbers over 2,500.  Of these, the greater part, old and young, rich and poor, men, women, and children, are engaged in the timber trade.  Some cut the wood; some transport it.  The wealthy convey it on trucks drawn by fine horses which, however, are cruelly overworked.  The poor harness themselves six or eight in a team, men, women, and boys together, and so, under the burning summer sun, drag loads that look as if they might be too much for an elephant....

To ascend the Campanile and get the near view over the village, was obviously one of the first duties of a visitor; so, finding the door open and the old bellringer inside, we mounted laboriously to the top—­nearly a hundred feet higher than the Leaning Tower of Pisa.  Standing here upon the outer gallery above the level of the great bells, we had the village and valley at our feet.  The panorama, tho’ it included little which we had not seen already, was fine all around, and served to impress the mainland marks upon our memory.  The Ampezzo Thal opened away to north and south, and the twin passes of the Tre Croci and Tre Sassi intersected it to east and west.  When we had fixt in our minds the fact that Landro and Bruneck lay out to the north, and Perarolo to the south; that Auronzo was to be found somewhere on the other side of the Tre Croci; and that to arrive at Caprile it was necessary to go over the Tre Sassi, we had gained something in the way of definite topography.  The Marmolata and Civetta, as we knew by our maps, were on the side of Caprile; and the Marmarole on the side of Auronzo.  The Pelmo, left behind yesterday, was peeping even now above the ridge of the Rochetta; and a group of fantastic rocks, so like the towers and bastions of a ruined castle that we took them at first sight for the remains of some medieval stronghold, marked the summit of the Tre Sassi to the west.

“But what mountain is that far away to the south?” we asked, pointing in the direction of Perarolo.

“Which mountain, Signora?”

“That one yonder, like a cathedral front with two towers.”

The old bellringer shaded his eyes with one trembling hand, and peered down the valley.

“Eh,” he said, “it is some mountain on the Italian side.”

“But what is it called?”

“Eh,” he repeated, with a puzzled look, “who knows?  I don’t know that I ever noticed it before.”

Now it was a very singular mountain—­one of the most singular and the most striking that we saw throughout the tour.  It was exactly like the front of Notre Dame, with one slender aiguille, like a flagstaff, shooting up from the top of one of its battlemented towers.  It was conspicuous from most points on the left bank of the Boita; but the best view, as I soon after discovered, was from the rising ground behind Cortina, going up through the fields in the direction of the Begontina torrent.