As the boy, an awed expression in his lifted blue eyes, gave utterance to this naive idea, I glanced at St. Aubyn’s face, and saw that, though his lips smiled, his eyes were grave and full of grateful wonder.

He turned towards the peasants grouped around us, and in their own language recited to them the child’s story.  They listened intently, from time to time exchanging among themselves intelligent glances and muttering interjections expressive of astonishment.  When the last word of the tale was spoken, the elder Raoul, who stood at the entrance of the cave, gazing out over the sunlit valley of the Arblen, removed his hat with a reverent gesture and crossed himself.

“God forgive us miserable sinners,” he said humbly, “and pardon us our human pride!  The Angel of the Lord whom Augustin and I beheld in our vision, ministering to the lad, is no other than the dog Gluck who lives at the monastery out yonder!  And while we men are lucid only once a year, he has the seeing gift all the year round, and the good God showed him the lad in this cave, when we, forsooth, should have looked for him in vain.  I know that every day Gluck is sent from the monastery laden with food and drink to a poor widow living up yonder over the ravine.  She is infirm and bedridden, and her little grand-daughter takes care of her.  Doubtless the poor soul took the sous in the basket to be the gift of the brothers, and, as her portion is not always the same from day to day, but depends on what they can spare from the store set apart for almsgiving, she would not notice the diminished cakes and milk, save perhaps to grumble a little at the increase of the beggars who trespassed thus on her pension.”

There was silence among us for a moment, then St Aubyn’s boy spoke.

“Father,” he asked, tremulously, “shall I not see that good Gluck again and tell the monks how he saved me, and how Fritz and Bruno brought you here?”

“Yes, my child,” answered St Aubyn, rising, and drawing the boy’s hand into his own, “we will go and find Gluck, who knows, no doubt, all that has passed today, and is waiting for us at the monastery.”

“We must ford the torrent,” said Augustin; “the bridge was carried off by last year’s avalanche, but with six of us and the dogs it will be easy work.”

Twilight was falling; and already the stars of Christmas Eve climbed the frosty heavens and appeared above the snowy far-off peaks.

Filled with gratitude and wonder at all the strange events of the day we betook ourselves to the ford, and by the help of ropes and stocks our whole party landed safely on the valley side.  Another half-hour brought us into the warm glow of the monk’s refectory fire, where, while supper was prepared, the worthy brothers listened to a tale at least as marvellous as any legend in their ecclesiastical repertory.  I fancy they must have felt a pang of regret that holy Mother Church would find it impossible to bestow upon Gluck and his two noble sons the dignity of canonisation.