the mountain hollows on each side of me; in the gloom, the foam and leaping waters resembled streaming fires.  I thought of turning back to find the little house of refuge again, but it seemed quite as dangerous and uncertain as to go forward.  After the fatigue I had undergone since noon, it would have been dangerous to be obliged to stay, out all night in the driving storm, which was every minute increasing in coldness and intensity.

“I stopped and shouted aloud, hoping I might be somewhere near the monastery, but no answer came—­no noise except the storm and the roar of the waterfalls.  I climbed up the rocks nearly a quarter of a mile higher, and shouted again.  I listened with anxiety for two or three minutes, but hearing no response, I concluded to find a shelter for the night under a ledge of rocks.  While looking around me, I fancied I heard in the distance a noise like the trampling of hoofs over the rocks, and thinking travelers might be near, I called aloud for the third time.  After wailing a moment, a voice came ringing on my ears through the clouds, like one from Heaven in response to my own.  My heart beat quickly; I hurried in the direction from which the sound came, and to my joy found two men—­servants of the monastery—­who were driving their mules into shelter.  Never in my whole life was I more glad to hear the voice of man.  These men conducted me to the monastery, one-fourth of a mile higher, built by the side of a lake at the summit of the pass, while on each side, the mountains, forever covered with snow, tower some thousands of feet higher.

“Two or three of the noble St. Bernard dogs barked a welcome as we approached, which brought a young monk to the door.  I addressed him in German, but to my surprise he answered in broken English.  He took me into a warm room and gave me a suit of clothes, such as are worn by the monks, for my dress, as well as my package of papers, were completely saturated with rain.  I sat down to supper in company with till the monks of the Hospice, I in my monkish robe looking like one of the holy order.  You would have laughed to have seen me in their costume.  Indeed, I felt almost satisfied to turn monk, as everything seemed so comfortable in the warm supper room, with its blazing wood fire, while outside raged the storm still more violently.  But when I thought of their voluntary banishment from the world, up in that high pass of the Alps, and that the affection of woman never gladdened their hearts, I was ready to renounce my monkish dress next morning, without reluctance.

“In the address book of the monastery, I found Longfellow’s ‘Excelsior’ written on a piece of paper and signed ‘America.’  You remember the stanza: 

At break of clay, as heavenward,
The pious monks of St. Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air: 

          
                                                        Excelsior!