“Our guide showed us the cabin,” interrupted the older man.  “The footprints of the dogs proved they had been there a short time before us.  We followed their tracks until the storm covered them.  It was a lucky thing the storm did not break earlier.”

“The dogs would have found you, Mr. Pixley,” the monk replied.  “You see, since we have had a telephone from the Hospice, each time travellers start up the trails, we know when they leave Martigny or Aosta and how many are on the way.  If they do not reach here in reasonable time, or a storm breaks, we send out the dogs at once.  It was much harder in the other days, before we had telephones, for we could not tell how many poor souls were struggling in the snow.  The dogs seemed to understand, too, and so they kept on searching until they believed they had found all.”

“I would not have attempted this trip had I not been assured that it was too early for a bad storm,” said Mr. Pixley.  “It is foolhardy, not courageous, to face these mountains in a winter storm.  I cannot imagine any one being so rash as to try it, but I suppose many do?”

“During the winter only poor peasants travel the Pass,” was Brother Antoine’s answer.  “They cross from Italy to seek work in the vineyards of France or Switzerland for the summer.  When summer is over they return home this way, because it would mean a long and expensive trip by rail, which would take all they have earned for a whole year.  An entire family will travel together, and often the youngest will be a babe in its mother’s arms.”

“I should think they would wait till later in the summer, and take no risks.”

“Only the good God knows when a snow storm will overtake one in the Pass of Great St. Bernard,” Brother Antoine said.  “Even in our summer months, when a light shower of rain falls in the Valley below, it becomes a heavy snow up here, and many people are taken unawares.  After winter really begins, in September, the snow is often from seven to ten feet deep and the drifts pile up against the walls of the Hospice as high as the third story roof.”

“I had planned to visit Berne,” Mr. Pixley spoke now, “but after this sample of your winter weather I have decided to return home to California.  I do not enjoy snow storms.  We have none where I live, you know.”

Brother Antoine nodded.  “Yes, I know; but I hope some day you will visit Berne and see Barry.  His skin was mounted and is kept in the Museum at Berne.  You know his record?  He saved forty-two people and died in 1815, just after the terrible storm that cost the lives of almost all the Hospice dogs.  Only three St. Bernards lived through those days—­Barry, Pluto, and Pallas.  A few crawled home to die of exhaustion and cold; the rest lie buried under thousands of feet of snow, but they all died like heroes!”

“A glorious record!” exclaimed the younger man, who had been patting Jan while the others talked.  “I remember, when I was a very small boy, that I found a picture in a book.  It showed a St. Bernard dog digging a man from the snow, and last night I recognized the picture in that painting which hangs over the fireplace in the refectory.”