But where all this while was Frank? Had he really fallen a victim to the murderous designs of his treacherous guardian? My readers have been kept too long in suspense as to his fate.

At the moment of falling he was fully conscious, but too late, of his companion's treachery. In that terrible moment there flashed upon him a full knowledge of the plot of which he was a victim, and he had time to connect with it his step-father as the prime author and instigator of the deed. It was indeed a terrible experience. In the full flush of youthful life and strength the gates of death swung open before him, and he gave himself up for lost, resigning himself to his fearful fate as well as he could.

But there was one thought of anguish—his mother! How would she grieve over his untimely death! And the wretch who had instigated his murder, would he stop short, content, or would he next assail her?

In times of danger the mind acts quickly. All these thoughts passed through the mind of our hero as he fell, but all at once there was a violent shock. He had stopped falling, yet he was not dead, only stunned. There was a ledge part way down, a hollow filled with soft snow—making a natural bed, and it was upon this that he had fallen. Yet, soft as it was, the shock was sufficient to deprive him of consciousness.

When he became sensible of surrounding objects—that is, when his consciousness returned—he looked about him in bewilderment.

Where was he?

Not surely on the ledge, for, looking around him, he saw the walls of a small and humble apartment, scantily provided with needful furniture. He was lying upon a bed, a poor wooden bedstead. There was another person in the room—a woman, so humbly attired that he knew she was a Swiss peasant.

"Where am I?" he asked, bewildered.

The woman turned quickly, and her homely, sun-browned face glowed with pleasure.

"You are awake, monsieur?" she said, in the French language.

I have already said that Frank was a French scholar, and could understand the language to a limited extent, as well as speak it somewhat. He understood her, and answered in French:

"Yes, madame, I am awake. Will you kindly tell me where I am?"

"You met with an accident, monsieur. My husband and my brother were upon the mountain, and found you on a ledge covered with snow."

"I remember," said Frank, shuddering. "When was that?"

"Yesterday. You have slept since then. How do you feel?"

"I feel sore and bruised. Are any of my limbs broken?"

He moved his arms and legs, but, to his great joy, ascertained that though sore, no bones were broken.

"It was a wonderful escape," said the woman. "You must have fallen from the cliff above."

"I did."

"But for falling on the ledge, you would have been killed."

"Yes," answered Frank, "but Heaven be thanked, I have escaped."

"How did you fall?" asked the woman. "That was what my husband and my brother, Antoine, could not understand. You must have been leaning over."

Frank paused.

"I cannot tell you now," he answered. "Perhaps I will soon."

"When you please, monsieur, but you must be hungry."

"I am indeed hungry, madame. I suppose it is more than twenty-four hours since I have tasted anything."

"Poor boy!" said the woman, compassionately. "I will at once get you something to eat. We are poor people, monsieur, and you may not like our plain fare."

"Don't speak of it, madame. You are only too kind to me. I can eat anything."

Frank had only spoken the truth. He was almost famished; and when the food was set before him, plain as it was, he ate with eager satisfaction, to the evident pleasure of his kindly hostess. But in sitting up, he realized by the soreness of his limbs and the aching of his back, that though no bones were broken, he was far from being in a condition to get up. It was with a feeling of relief that he sank back upon the bed, and with listless eyes watched the movements of his hostess. He was not equal to the exertion of forming plans for the future.