He had finished his
morning's work in some distant field, and was off for a chamois-hunt
among the rocks and glaciers. As a relic of our visit he gave us a block
of rye bread twenty-two months old, which he chopped off the loaf with a
hatchet.
We had frequent evidence in the course of our excursion that Pastor
Charpiot is a real shepherd to his needy flock. Indeed, he gave to the
walk an intimate and peculiar interest quite apart from its historical
associations. Here he bade us go slowly on while he looked in upon a
sick man, explaining that he had to be doctor as well as minister. Again
he asked us to stop and share with him some of the grapes which a stout
young peasant-woman was bringing on her donkey from the Durance
vineyards, and which had no sweetness save in the good-will that offered
them. For all whom we met he had a cheery greeting or an affectionate
inquiry that showed familiar acquaintance with their concerns; and
occasionally a word or two suggested a truth or hope, aptly illustrated
in some passing incident, no matter how trifling or homely.
A storm was gathering in the mountains as we made our way back to
Pallons through the deepening shadows of the autumn afternoon. Before we
emerged from the desolate valley its gloom had grown almost intolerable;
and yet this was but a suggestion of the winter horrors which the
white-haired pastor at our side had faced for years in his regular
ministrations at the different hamlets we had visited.
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