All retreat being cut off, M.Moriaz began to regret his audacity.

Seized by a sudden agony of alarm, he began to ask himself if he was not condemned to end his days in this eagle's-nest; he thought with envy of the felicity of the inhabitants of the plains; he cast piteous glances at the implacable wall whose frowning visage seemed to reproach him with his imprudence.

It seemed to him that the human mind never had devised anything more beautiful than a great highway; and it would have taken little to make him exclaim with Panurge, "Oh, thrice--ay, quadruply--happy those who plant cabbages!" Although there seemed small chance of his being heard in this solitude, he called aloud several times; he had great difficulty in raising his voice above the noise of the cataract.

Suddenly he believed that he heard below him a distant voice replying to his call.

He redoubled his cries, and it seemed to him that the voice drew nearer, and soon he saw emerging from the thicket bordering the opposite bank of the torrent a pale face with chestnut beard, which he remembered having beheld in the cathedral at Chur, and to have seen again at Bergun.
"You are a prisoner, monsieur," was the salutation of Count Larinski; for, of course, the newcomer was none other than he.