CHAPTER 37. FELLOW TRAVELLERS
In the autumn of the year, Darkness and Night were creeping up to the highest ridges of the Alps.
It was vintage time in the valleys on the Swiss side of the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard, and along the banks of the Lake of Geneva. The air there was charged with the scent of gathered grapes. Baskets, troughs, and tubs of grapes stood in the dim village doorways, stopped the steep and narrow village streets, and had been carrying all day along the roads and lanes. Grapes, split and crushed under foot, lay about everywhere. The child carried in a sling by the laden peasant woman toiling home, was quieted with picked-up grapes; the i***t sunning his big goitre under the leaves of the wooden chalet by the way to the Waterfall, sat munching grapes; the breath
