Above the narrow valley of Champéry the Dent du Midi makes a dreadful caricature of the Trinity. The three great figures loom up against the sky, huddling together in evil conclave, leaning backwards in attitudes of insolence and pride. When the light is behind them their stony faces brood darkly in the shadow, a living monument to the mystery of evil; when the sun beats on them they stare over into Savoy, blank, cruel, unanswering; mouthless and eyeless, yet they grin and mock as if eternally amused at the helplessness of the human intellect faced with the unanswered question of evil. Their snow-streaked robes fall in gigantic folds about the granite cliffs where they sit enthroned; there is a suggestion of vast elbows and shoulders, of dreadful muscles and sinews, of huge limbs reposing, of fearful power waiting and held in reserve. Yet somewhere amidst that mighty solidity there is a hint of heaviness, of blankness, of —stupidity. They are a trio of darkness; and though the light is on them, it is never in them, and though the clouds gather about them as if to hide their great Council from human eyes, the frightened watcher has a suspicion, deep down, that their staring pride is valueless to the heavens and their mighty cogitations are empty and unwise.

Immediately beside the third great figure is a fourth point, the Haute Cime, higher than all three, standing up like the back of a throne; the cliff falls down from it in a great sweeping curve and gathers again into the solid bastion of golden granite called the Dent de Chaux.