Joseph had visited the Hospice many times, and knew the etiquette for
strangers. He bade me go in, and ring the bell at the _grille_, unless
I should meet one of the monks before reaching it. I mounted the
steps, entered the wide doorway which had framed the dog's head, and
found myself in a vast, dusky corridor, resonant with strange
echoings, and mysterious with flitting shadows, which might be ghosts
of the past, or live beings of the present. As my eyes grew accustomed
to the gloom, I saw that there were numerous persons in this great
hall: tall monks in flowing robes of black, beggars come to solicit
alms or breakfast; and dogs, many dogs, who crowded round me, with a
waving of huge tails, and a gleaming of brown jewelled eyes in the
dusk. I did not need to ring the bell of the iron gate beyond which,
according to Joseph, no woman has ever passed. One of the monks came
to me--a tall, spare young man with a grave face, soft in expression,
yet hardened in outline by a rigorous life and exposure to extreme
cold. He gave me welcome in French, with here and there an
interpellation of "Down, Turk," "Be quiet, Jupiter!" Would I like
breakfast, he asked; and then--yes, certainly--to see the chapel, the
_bibliotheque_, the monastery museum, and the Alpine garden? There
would be plenty of time for this, and still to reach Aosta. Another
monk was called, and an introduction effected.
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