“You are a prisoner, monsieur,” was the salutation of Count Larinski; for, of course, the newcomer was none other than he.  “One moment’s patience, and I am with you.”  And his face beamed with joy.  He had him at last, this precious game which has caused him so many steps.

He turned away, bounding from rock to rock with the agility of a chamois.  In about twenty minutes he reappeared, bearing on his shoulder a long plank which he had detached from the inclosure of a piece of pasture-land.  He threw it across the torrent, secured it as well as he could, crossed this impromptu foot-bridge of his own device, and joined M. Moriaz, who was quite ready to embrace him.

“Nothing is more perfidious than the mountains,” said the count.  “They are haunted by some mysterious sprite, who fairly delights in playing tricks with venturesome people; but ‘all’s well that ends well.’  Before setting out from here you need something to revive you.  The rarefied atmosphere of these high regions makes the stomach frightfully hollow.  More prudent than you, I never undertake these expeditions without providing myself with some refreshment.  But how pale you are!” he added, looking at him with sympathetic, almost tender, eyes.  “Put on, I beg of you, my overcoat, and I will wrap myself up in my plaid, and then we will both be warm.”

With these words he took off his overcoat and handed it to M. Moriaz, who, feeling almost frozen, offered feeble objections to donning the garment, although he had some difficulty in getting into the sleeves.

During this time Count Abel had thrown down on the rock the wallet he carried slung to a leathern strap over his shoulders.  He drew forth from it a loaf of light bread, some hard-boiled eggs, a pate of venison, and a bottle of excellent burgundy.  These provisions he spread out around him, and then presented to M. Moriaz a cup cut from a cocoanut-shell, and filled it to the brim, saying, “Here is something that will entirely restore you.”  M. Moriaz drained the cup, and soon felt his weakness disappear.  His natural good spirits returned to him, and he gaily narrated to his Amphitryon his deplorable Odyssey.  In return, Abel recounted to him a similar adventure he had had in the Carpathian Mountains.  It is very easy to take a liking to a man who helps you out of a scrape, who gives you drink when you are thirsty, and food when you are hungry; but, even had not M. Moriaz been under great obligations to Count Larinski, he could not have avoided the discovery that this amiable stranger was a man of good address and agreeable conversation.

Nevertheless, so soon as the repast was finished, he said:  “We have forgotten ourselves in our talk.  I am the happy father of a charming daughter who has a vivid imagination.  She will believe that I have met with an untimely end if I do not hasten as speedily as possible to reassure her.”