A path from Montana takes one over a pine-clad spur and down a precipitous zig-zag upon the middle of the Bisse, and thither Benham came, fascinated by the very fact that here was something of which the mere report frightened him.  He had to walk across the cold clear rush of the Bisse upon a pine log, and then he found himself upon one of the gentler interludes of the Bisse track.  It was a scrambling path nearly two feet wide, and below it were slopes, but not so steep as to terrify.  At a vast distance below he saw through tree-stems and blue haze a twisted strand of bright whiteness, the river that joins the Rhone at Sion.  It looped about and passed out of sight remotely beneath his feet.  He turned to the right, and came to a corner that overhung a precipice.  He craned his head round this corner and saw the evil place of the picture-postcards.

He remained for a long time trying to screw himself up to walk along the jagged six-inch edge of rock between cliff and torrent into which the path has shrunken, to the sagging plank under the overhanging rock beyond.

He could not bring himself to do that.

“It happened that close to the corner a large lump of rock and earth was breaking away, a cleft was opening, so that presently, it seemed possible at any moment, the mass would fall headlong into the blue deeps below.  This impending avalanche was not in my path along the Bisse, it was no sort of danger to me, but in some way its insecurity gave a final touch to my cowardice.  I could not get myself round that corner.”

He turned away.  He went and examined the planks in the other direction, and these he found less forbidding.  He crossed one precipitous place, with a fall of twoscore feet or less beneath him, and found worse ahead.  There also he managed.  A third place was still more disagreeable.  The plank was worn and thin, and sagged under him.  He went along it supporting himself against the rock above the Bisse with an extended hand.  Halfway the rock fell back, so that there was nothing whatever to hold.  He stopped, hesitating whether he should go back—­but on this plank there was no going back because no turning round seemed practicable.  While he was still hesitating there came a helpful intervention.  Behind him he saw a peasant appearing and disappearing behind trees and projecting rock masses, and coming across the previous plank at a vigorous trot. . . .

Under the stimulus of a spectator Benham got to the end of this third place without much trouble.  Then very politely he stood aside for the expert to go ahead so that he could follow at his own pace.

There were, however, more difficulties yet to come, and a disagreeable humiliation.  That confounded peasant developed a parental solicitude.  After each crossing he waited, and presently began to offer advice and encouragement.  At last came a place where everything was overhanging, where the Bisse was leaking, and the plank wet and slippery.  The water ran out of the leak near the brim of the wooden channel and fell in a long shivering thread of silver.  There was no sound of its fall.  It just fell—­into a void.  Benham wished he had not noted that.  He groaned, but faced the plank; he knew this would be the slowest affair of all.