OVER THE SIMPLON PASS 67 



ting with each other in some unfamiliar language 

 which is not Italian or French or German. 



When we leave the hotel the next morning for 

 the all-day ride over the Alps our unresponsive 

 fellow-travellers are in the banquette at the ex- 

 treme rear end of the diligence, while we occupy 

 the coupe directly under the driver's seat. We 

 could not speak to them if we would, and would 

 not if we could. Indeed, they are soon forgotten 

 in the joy of the hour. The deep blue of the 

 Italian sky unflecked by a cloud, the broad, smooth 

 highway, the cottages with their tiny patches of 

 cultivated land, the exhilarating morning air and 

 the rattling pace at which we bowl along for the 

 first mile or more, would help us to ignore even a 

 greater unhappiness than that caused by the snub- 

 bing of the previous evening. 



Now we have left the level road and begin the 

 long and tortuous climb towards the summit of 

 the Simplon Pass. Again and again we cross the 

 brawling stream with which the road disputes the 

 right of way. The bridges are all of solid stone. 

 Yonder, to the left, the mountains rise in great 

 ridges and piles of raw rock, while on the right a 

 more gentle slope is covered with grass and shrubs. 

 We begin to count the waterfalls, threads of spun 

 silver hung against the dark background of the 

 rocks, but soon lose track of the count. On the 

 heights the snow is lying, and by the roadside the 

 wild flowers blossom in profusion. What a glory 



