Melchior stood looking up, shading his eyes.

"That is curious," he said thoughtfully. "I do not know why that stone should have fallen."

"Loosened by the frost, man."

"No, herr. It could not have come from high enough. There is no ice up there. You have to pass another valley first. The high mountain is beyond it, and the stones would fall into the next valley."

"It must have been loosened, then, by the rain."

"Perhaps, herr; but it is more likely that a goat—No, there are no goats pastured so far up as this, and no man could be travelling up there. Herr, would you like to shoot a chamois?"

"Indeed I should; but we have no gun."

"No, herr, I forgot: we have no gun. But that must have been a chamois. We are getting into the wild region where they live, though this is low down for them."

"But surely," said Dale, "they would get no pasture higher up?"

"Only in patches, herr. They have been so persecuted by the hunters that they live constantly amongst the ice and snow and in the most solitary spots. But I cannot understand about that stone falling."

"Well, it doesn't matter," said Saxe. "It did not hit either of us, and you said they often fell in the mountains."

"Yes herr, but not like that."

They went on for the next two hours in silence, while the pass they were following grew more and more wild, but it opened out a little during the next hour, but only to contract again. And here, in a secluded place beneath one of the vast walls of rock which shut them in, and beside a tiny rivulet which came bubbling and foaming down, the guide suggested a short halt and refreshment.

Dale agreed, and Saxe doubly agreed, helping to lift the pannier from the mule's back, when the patient animal indulged in a roll, drank a little water, and then began to browse on such tender shoots and herbage as it could find.

The bread and cheese were produced, and all were seated enjoying their alfresco meal, when once more from up to their right a stone as big as a man's head came crashing down, to fall not far away. So near was it that it startled the mule, who trotted a little on out of danger before beginning again to graze.

Melchior had sprung to his feet at once, leaped away for a short distance, and stood shading his eyes again, and scanning the rocky face of the precipice on their right—that is, just above their heads.

"Well, what do you make of it?" cried Dale,—"a landslip?"

"No, herr; there is no landslip."

"Is it the advance-guard of an avalanche?"

"Without snow, herr? No."

"Come and eat your bread and cheese, Melk," cried Saxe; "it is only a loose stone tumbled down, and no one was hit."

"But I cannot eat, herr, with the knowledge that some one is hurling down stones upon our heads. Do you know that either of those falling stones would have killed us?"

"Yes, but they did not hit us," said Saxe.

"But surely there is no one up there to hurl down stones?" said Dale.

"I don't know, herr," said the guide, shaking his head.

"But you said you thought it was a chamois," cried Saxe.

"I did, herr, but I'm afraid I was wrong. I am not a believer in such things; but some of our people would say that the spirits of the mountains are displeased with us for coming here, and are throwing stones to drive us back."

"They're pretty strong, then, to throw such stones as that," said Saxe, with his mouth full of Swiss cheese.

"Yes," said Dale, looking at the stone which had fallen; "and they take very bad aim—eh, Saxe?"

"Awfully: I could do better than that. Why, if I were up there I believe I could hit either of you."

"But it might be only to frighten us," said Melchior seriously.

"Why, Melchior, my man, surely you do not believe in such childish nonsense as that?"

"No, herr, not when I have English gentlemen with me; but there are times on the mountains, when I am quite alone and I hear noises that I cannot understand, that I do get fancying strange things, and all the old stories I have heard as a boy come back to me."

"And then you say to yourself, 'I am a man who puts his trust in reason, and shall not let myself be scared by silly tales.'"

"Well, yes, herr, something of the kind," replied the guide, smiling.

"There goes another stone!" cried Saxe, as a smaller one fell about fifty yards farther on.

"Yes," said the guide; "and it is as if somebody were climbing along there, near the edge of the rocks, and sent them down."

"Ah! that's more like an explanation," cried Dale, laughing. "Somebody. Yes, you must be right. Somebody with feet and hands, like ourselves. Can you see who it is?"

"No, herr," said Melchior, after a long examination; "and it puzzles me, for who could be climbing along up there?"

Dale shrugged his shoulders. "Impossible to say."

"Yes, herr, it is impossible to say," said Melchior, who was still watching the precipice; and he was now joined by Saxe. "You see, anybody who wished to get along the pass would come down here."

"But there may be a path up yonder."

"No, herr, there is none, or I should have known of it years ago. I have been up there, and it is so perilous that no one but a bold climber could get along. Well, it is one of the many things I have seen and heard in the mountains that I could not understand. Shall we go on, herr?"

"Yes, and we'll keep a sharp look-out," said Saxe.

"You may," cried Dale; "but you will find it is something perfectly simple—a stray foot, if the stone is not loosened by the weather."

Ten minutes later they were trudging on over the rough ground, with the valley growing wilder and more strange; presenting, too, plenty of clefts and openings to ravines which Dale felt disposed to stop and explore; but Melchior was always ready with the same form of speech.

"Wait, herr," he said. "It would only be labour in vain. We'll go on till I get you into the parts where none but the most venturesome guides have been. If crystals are to be found, it will be there."

"What's that?" said Saxe suddenly, pointing upwards.

His companions looked at once in the direction indicated, and saw nothing particular.

"Does the young herr mean that strangely shaped thing!"

"No, no. Something ran across there hundreds of feet up, where that bit of a ledge is in front of the pale brown patch of stones."

"A marmot, perhaps," said Melchior; "there are many of the little things about here."

"But this was not a little thing," cried Saxe impatiently. "It was something big as a goat. I thought it was a man."

"Up yonder, herr?" said Melchior. "No man could run along up there. It would be slow, careful climbing, and a slip would send the climber headlong down into the valley here. From where you say, is quite a thousand feet."

"It must have been a goat, then, or a chamois," said Saxe.

"I cannot say, herr," replied the guide rather solemnly, and as if he had faith in the possibility of something "no canny" being at the bottom of the mystery.

But the rest of their day's journey, as mapped out for them by Melchior, was achieved without further adventure, and some ten hours after their start in the morning he halted them high up among the mountains, in a little rock amphitheatre, surrounded by peaks, which looked gigantic in the solemn evening light.

But the need of the ordinary animal comforts of life took all romantic thought out of Saxe's brain, and he busily set to work helping to light a fire with the wood the guide had brought. Then, while the kettle was getting hot, all three busied themselves in setting up the tiny tent, anchoring it by means of its lines to stones, as soft a spot as could be found having been selected, for they were far above the pines, and the prospect of getting anything suitable for a bed was very small—even moss proving scarce. However, a rug spread beneath them saved them from some of the asperities of the rocky ground, and after they had partaken of their evening meal and taken a short peep round the huge hollow, which promised admirably for exploration next day, "good nights" were said, and Saxe lay down for his first test of what it would be like to sleep under the shelter of a thin tent eight thousand feet above the level of the sea.

"Is there any need to keep watch up here?" asked Dale.

"Oh no, herr; not the slightest."

"Then welcome sleep to my weary bones," said Dale, as he stretched himself out; and soon after, as the stars came out, they were all sleeping peacefully, but only to be aroused just after midnight by a most unearthly scream—a cry loud enough to make every one spring at once to his feet and nearly upset the tiny tent.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A STRANGE INCIDENT.

It was very dark and cold, the stars gleamed frostily overhead, and the nearest mountain peak stood out weird-looking and strange against the purple sky, as the little party stood together listening, and then questioning each other in an awe-stricken whisper.

"You heard it, Saxe?" said Dale.

"Heard it? Yes, it was horrible. What was it, Melchior?"

The guide shook his head, and then took up his ice-axe for a protection against whatever the object might be that had alarmed them, as he began to peer cautiously in all directions.

"It woke me up with a start," whispered Saxe.

"Yes; the most unearthly cry I ever heard. It must have been some kind of owl, and its shriek sounded the more terrible from being up in this land of echoes."

"Then if it was a bird there is nothing to be afraid of," said Saxe. "It gave me the shivers."

"It was startling. Found anything, Melchior?"

"No, herr; and I'm puzzled."

"We think it was a bird."

"No, herr; that was no bird."

"Could it have been an animal?"

"There are no animals up at this height, but chamois and marmots. They could not have made such a cry."

"No," said Dale thoughtfully.

"Stop!" said the guide, as if he had caught at an idea; "could it have been a bear?"

"No-o-o!" cried Saxe. "It was a shriek, not a growl."

"You are right, herr," said the guide. "Bears are very scarce now, and I do not think one of them could make such a noise unless he were being killed. This is another mystery of the mountains that I cannot explain. Some guides would say it was the mountain spirit."

"But you do not, Melchior?"

"No, herr; I believe now that all these old stories ate fables. Shall we lie down again to rest?"

"I want to rest," said Dale; "but it seems impossible to lie down expecting to be roused up by such an unearthly cry."

"Then the English herr thinks it was unearthly?"

"Oh, I don't mean that," said Dale hastily. "The mountains are full of awful things, but not of that kind. Well, Saxe, shall we lie down?"

"What's the good?" replied the boy: "we couldn't go to sleep if we did. I say, isn't it cold?"

"Get one of the rugs to put round you."

"Shall we have a good look round, first, herr?"

"No, don't," said Saxe. "It is so dark, and there are so many stones about. Yes, let's go," he added suddenly, as the thought flashed across his brain that if he declined his companions would think him cowardly.

Just at that moment, from out of the darkness, about fifty yards away, the cry rose again, but short and sudden, like a bit of the fag end of the shriek which had roused them from their sleep.

"There!" cried Saxe.

"Yes, herr—there!" said the guide, and he began to laugh silently. "Why, it quite startled me. I ought to have known."

"What was it?" cried Dale, as the curious wild cry seemed still to be ringing in his ears.

"What was it, herr? Don't you know?"

"Of course not."

"It was Gros."

"The old mule?" cried Saxe. "Oh, I wish I was close by him with a stick."

"I suppose he feels the cold. No, stop: it can't be that," added the guide, as if suddenly struck by an idea. "There must be a reason for his crying out."

He walked away hurriedly into the darkness, and they followed, to hear him talking directly after to the mule, which responded with a low whinnying sound.

"Perhaps the poor brute has slipped into a hole or a crack in the rock," suggested Dale; but as they drew nigh they could see the mule standing out dimly in the darkness, and the guide close by his neck.

"Have we overdriven him?" said Saxe. "Is he ill?"

"You couldn't overdrive Gros, herr," said Melchior quietly.

"Why not?"

"You heard what old Andregg said to us, Gros would not be overdriven, herr; he would lie down when he had done as much work as he felt was enough."

"What's the matter, then? Is he ill?"

"No, herr; his coat is smooth and dry."

"I know," cried Saxe.

"You know, herr?"

"Yes; of course, he has been trying to find enough to eat amongst these stones, and there is scarcely anything. He is hungry, and crying out for supper."

"Oh no, herr. I showed him where he could find plenty of green shoots, and I gave him half a loaf of black bread as well before we had our meal."

"Then he wants kicking for waking us up like this."

"No, herr," said the guide drily; "and it is bad work to kick Gros. He is a very clever animal, and can kick much harder than a man. I remember Pierre kicking him once, and he kicked back and nearly broke the man's leg."

"Then don't kick him. But what is the matter with him?"

"I cannot tell you, herr, unless some one has been here since we lay down to sleep."

"But, surely, Melchior, if any one came he would have seen the tent and spoken."

"Yes, herr, one would think so, for out in the mountains here we are all friends. We should have given him to eat and drink just as we should have expected it if we came upon a camp."

"Well," said Dale, "it was a false alarm, and I'm going to lie down again. Come, Saxe."

"But suppose—"

"No, no; we have so much hard work to do to-morrow that we want all the rest we can get. There is nothing to suppose, is there, Melchior?"

"Oh no, herr; and besides, if the herr likes, I will sit up and watch."

"There is no need. Come: sleep."

"I can't sleep," thought Saxe, as he lay down once more in the shelter of the tent. "I shall be listening, and expecting to hear that cry again."

But his head had hardly touched the rug before he was breathing heavily; and he slept without moving till a hand was laid upon his shoulder; and as he opened his eyes he saw that it was daybreak and that the dark figure bending over him was the guide.

"Time to get up?"

"Yes, herr—quick!" was the reply. "Will you wake up the herr?"

"Eh? Yes: all right, Melchior," cried Dale. "Hah! what a splendid sleep! It does not seem five minutes since I lay down."

"Will you come out, sir?" said the guide, in rather a peculiar manner.

"Yes, of course. Eh? Is anything the matter?"

"I don't quite know, herr," replied the guide, as they stood together; "but it is clear some one has been here in the night."

"Then that is what frightened the mule?"

"Yes, herr; that is what made him cry out. Look!"

"What at?" said Dale quietly, as they now stood beside the ashes of the last night's fire.

"Cannot the herr see?"

Dale looked sharply round, and Saxe followed his example.

"I see nothing," said the former.

"Nor I," said Saxe; "only that the bits of burnt wood seem to have been kicked about."

"That's it, herr," cried Melchior; "and look there!"

He bent down, and pointed.

"Ah! look, Saxe!" cried Dale: "some one's footmark in the pine ash!"

"'Tisn't mine," said Saxe: "it's too big."

"Nor mine," said Dale. "An English boot does not leave a print like that. It's yours, Melchior. A false alarm."

"No, herr—no false alarm," said the guide; and he raised one foot so as to expose the sole. "Look at the open way in which I nail my boots— with big nails, so that they shall not slip on the rock or ice. That footprint is not mine."

"No: you are right. Then whose could it be?"

Melchior shook his head.

"Some one must have been prowling round the tent in the night."

"It must have been one of Melk's spirits—the one who threw stones at us yesterday. I say, Melk, they wear very big boots."

The guide smiled.

"Yes, herr, it was some one with big boots; and I do not understand it."

Dale's first idea—a natural one under the circumstances—was that plunder was the object; and he said so.

"No, herr; I do not think there is anybody about here who would steal."

"I'm very glad to hear it," said Dale: "but let's see if anything has gone."

The guide said nothing—only looked on while an examination was made.

"No," said Dale; "I do not miss anything. Yes: my little binocular is missing!"

"No, herr; you put it inside the big basket last night."

"Yes, here it is," cried Saxe.

"Then you are right, Melchior: it could not have been robbery."

"No, herr, it is strange; but I will light the fire and get breakfast."

As he spoke he began kindling some dry stuff he had collected, and shortly after the coffee-pot was promising to boil. Then some bacon was sliced and frizzled, and the appetising odour soon made the memories of the night alarm pass away in the thoughts of the excellent breakfast, which was finished while the pass in which they were seated was still grey, though the mountain peaks looked red-hot in the coming sunshine.

"Well, I'm not going to let an incident like that interfere with our progress, Melchior. Where do you propose going next?"

"Up whichever thal the herr chooses, and then up the mountain."

"And not quite over the pass?"

"No, herr. We are in the highest part here, and we may come upon crystals in any of these solitary peaks."

"Very well; then we'll make a start at any time you like. Do we come back here?"

"No, herr. I propose that we take the mule on to the foot of the Great Oberweiss glacier, an hour from here. There is good camping ground, and then we will go up the mountain by the side of the ice meer."

"And to shake off our stone-throwing friend," said Dale. "Good. We will, and will keep a better look-out for the crevasses this time—eh, Saxe?"

"Yes, and we can try the new rope."

A few minutes sufficed for saddling up the mule with his load, and then they started once more farther into the wilds, in all the glorious beauty of the early summer morning, Melchior leading them in and out through such a labyrinth of cracks and rifts that after some hours' walking, Saxe glanced at his leader.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering how we could find our way back."

Melchior laughed.

"Oh, easily enough, herr."

"But I couldn't," cried Saxe.

"No, herr. That shows the use of a guide. But I could have come an easier way, only I am taking a short cut. We are a thousand feet higher than when we started. Look, herr: go on by that shelf of rock: it is perfectly safe. Then come back and tell me what you see."

Saxe started forward, from the ragged slope they were ascending; and a minute or two after passing quite a mossy niche, which ran some forty or fifty yards right into the mountain, to where a silvery-veil-like cascade fell, he stopped short, threw up his hands, and then turned and signalled to Dale.

"What is it?" cried the latter, as he hurried to the boy's side. "Hah!"

He wanted no explanation, for they were standing at the edge of a precipice, gazing down at another huge glacier, which glittered in the rays of the morning sun—a vast chaos of ice whose cracks and shadows were of a vivid blue; and as they gazed up towards the point where it suddenly curved round an immense buttress, there beyond, peak after peak, as far as eye could reach, stood out in the clear air, and all seeming to rise out of the fields and beds of snow which clung around them and filled every ravine and chasm running up from their feet.

"Oh!" cried Saxe—"did you ever see anything so beautiful? Why, the place is all crystals!"

"Grand!" said Dale slowly, as he stood rapt in a reverie of wonder and admiration at the scene before him. "Why, Saxe, we couldn't have had a better guide! We must make a halt here, and begin to explore."

"But you'll go up another mountain?"

"Didn't you have enough of the last?"

"No!" cried the boy excitedly. "I know I was very stupid and clumsy, and wasn't half so brave as I should have liked to be; but I long to begin again."

"Then you shall."

"When? Now?"

"Too late in the day. We'll explore about here first, and if the weather is right we'll make a start to-morrow."

"Oh!" said Saxe in a disappointed tone.

"There—you'll have plenty of work to-day, for we must go down on this wonderful glacier and examine the sides. Look! there's what they call a mill there."

"A mill? I don't see it."

"Moulin. No, no—not a building. That fall, where the water rushes into the crevasse you can see. There—up yonder, a quarter of a mile away."

At that moment there was a tremendous crash on their left; and, as they turned sharply, it was to see from far below them what appeared to be a cloud of smoke rising and wreathing round, full of tiny specks of silver, and over which an iris glimmered for a few moments, and faded away with the ice dust caused by the toppling over of a huge serac, which had crushed half a dozen others in its fall.

"Come along. Let's arrange about our camp; and then we'll take hammers and a chisel, and begin to examine the side of this glacier at once."

They turned back. Saxe quitting the glorious view of the crystal silver land, as he mentally dubbed it, very unwillingly.

To his surprise, as they descended they found Gros on his back, in a gully full of sand and stones, snorting, flapping his ears and throwing up his legs, as he fell over first on one side, then on the other, in the full enjoyment of a good roll; while as they advanced it was to find Melchior in the sheltered nook setting up the tent, after rolling some huge pieces of rock to the four corners ready to secure the ropes; for there was no spot in that stony ravine where a peg of iron, let alone one of wood, could be driven in.

"Hah! a capital spot, Melchior."

"Yes, herr, well sheltered from three winds, and there is plenty of good water; but we shall have to be sparing with the wood. To-morrow I'll take Gros, and go down to the nearest pine forest and bring up a load."

"Then you mean to stay here?"

"For a few days, herr. You have peaks all round which you can climb. There is the glacier, and there are bare mountain precipices and crevices where you may find that of which you are in search."

"Yes," said Dale, as he looked back out of the narrow opening of the gash in the mountain which the guide had chosen for their shelter; "I think this place will do."

"Then the herr is satisfied?"

"Well, yes, for the present. Now, then, leave what you are doing, and we'll descend to the glacier at once."

"Yes, herr. One moment. I'll hang up the lanthorn and the new English rope here. The glass may be kicked against and broken."

He suspended the English-made stout glass lanthorn to the little ridge-pole; and then, resuming his jacket, he threw the coil of rope over his shoulder, took his ice-axe, Dale and Saxe taking theirs, all new and bright, almost as they had left the manufacturer's, and started at once for the shelf from which the grand view of the snow-clad mountains had met their gaze. After proceeding along this a short distance, Melchior stopped, climbed out upon a projecting point, and examined the side of the precipice.

"We can get down here, herr," he said; and, setting the example, he descended nimbly from ledge to ledge, pausing at any difficult place to lend a hand or point out foothold, till they were half-way down, when the ledges and crevices by which they had descended suddenly ceased, and they stood upon a shelf from which there seemed to be no further progression, till, as if guided by the formation, Melchior crept to the very end, peered round an angle of the rock, and then came back.

"No," he said—"not that way: the other end."

He passed his two companions, and, going to the farther part, climbed up a few feet, and then passed out of their sight.

"This way, gentlemen!" he shouted; and upon joining him they found that he had hit upon quite an easy descent to the ice.

This proved to be very different to the glacier they had first examined. It was far more precipitous in its descent, with the consequence that it was greatly broken up into blocks, needles and overhanging seracs. These were so eaten away beneath that it seemed as if a breath would send them thundering down.

"Not very safe—eh, Melchior?" said Dale.

"No, herr; we must not venture far from the edge."

This vast glacier had also shrunk, leaving from ten to twenty feet of smoothly polished rock at the side—that is, at the foot of the precipitous gorge down which it ran—and thus forming a comparatively easy path for the travellers, who climbed upwards over the rounded masses, stopping from time to time where the ice curved over, leaving spaces between it and its rocky bed, down which Saxe gazed into a deep blue dimness, and listened to the murmuring roar of many waters coursing along beneath.

Suddenly Dale uttered an ejaculation, and, taking a hammer from his belt, began to climb up the rocky side of the valley.

Melchior saw the place for which he was making, and uttered a grunt indicative of satisfaction.

The spot beneath which Dale stopped was only a dark-looking crack; but as Saxe went nearer he could see that it was edged with dark-coloured crystals set closely together, and resembling in size and shape the teeth of a small saw.

Dale began to probe the crack directly with the handle of his ice-axe, to find that the crevice gradually widened; and on applying his mouth there and shouting, he could feel that it was a great opening.

"There ought to be big crystals in there, Melchior," cried Dale excitedly.

"Yes, herr; but without you brought powder and blasting tools you could not get at them, and if you did blast you would break them up."

Dale said nothing, but laying down his ice-axe he took hammer and chisel and began to chip energetically at the hard rock, while the others looked on till he ceased hammering, with a gesture full of impatience.

"You are right, Melchior," he said; "I shall never widen it like this."

"Why try, herr? I can show you holes already large enough for us to get in."

"You know for certain of such places?"

"I cannot tell you exactly where they are now, but I have seen them in the mountains!"

"In the mountains?"

"Well, then, right in these mountains, I feel sure. Let us go on and try. If we do not find a better place we know where this is, and can try it another time."

"Go on, then," said Dale, rather reluctantly; and they continued climbing, with the rock towering up on one side, the ice curving over on the other, and rising in the middle of the glacier to a series of crags and waves and smooth patches full of cracks, in which lay blocks of granite or limestone that had been tumbled down from the sides or far up toward the head of the valley ages before.

They had not progressed far before the guide pointed out another crack in the rock fringed with gem-like crystals, and then another and another, but all out of reach without chipping steps in the stone—of course a most arduous task.

"All signs that we are in the right formation, Saxe," said Dale more hopefully, after they had toiled on up the side of the glacier for about a couple of hours; and they stood watching Melchior, who had mounted on to the ice to see if he could find better travelling for them.

"Yes," he shouted—"better here;" and the others climbed up and joined him, to find that the surface was much smoother, and that the broken-up masses of ice were far less frequent.

"Plenty of crevasses, herr," said Melchior; "but they are all to be seen. There is no snow to bridge them over."

He stood looking down one of the blue cracks zigzagged across the glacier, and Saxe could not help a shudder as he gazed down into its blue depths and listened to the roar of water which came up from below.

But it was not more than a yard in width, and in turn they leaped across and continued their way.

Then they had to pass another, half the width, and others that were mere fissures, which Dale said were slowly splitting; but soon after stepping across the last of these, further progress over the ice was barred by a great chasm four or five yards from edge to edge, along which they had to skirt till its end could be turned and their journey continued.

"Can we take to the rocks again?" said Dale, looking anxiously toward the almost perpendicular sides of the valley up which they slowly made their way.

"Not yet, herr: I have been watching, and we are still only passing mere crevices in the rock. Hah! now we are coming to the enow, and shall have to take care."

He pointed with his ice-axe to where, a hundred yards or so farther on, the surface of the ice suddenly changed; but they did not pass at once on to the snow, for as they neared it they found that they were parted from it by another crevasse of about four feet wide.

"We need not go round this, I suppose," said Dale, as he stood peering down into its depths—Saxe following his example, and listening to a peculiar hissing rush of water far below.

"No, herr, the leap is so short. Shall I go first?"

"Oh no," said Dale, stepping back and then jumping lightly across, to alight on the snow; "beautiful landing, Saxe. Take a bit of a run."

"Yes," said the boy; and he stepped back also for a few yards, sprang and cleared the gap with a yard or so to spare. "What a place it would be to fall down, though!" said Saxe, as he began to tramp on over the snow by Dale's side. "I couldn't help thinking so as I flew over it."

"And very stupid of you too! There's no danger in leaping over a dry ditch four feet wide, so why should you make a fuss about the same distance because it is deep?"

Boom!

"Hallo!" said Dale. "That sounded like snow somewhere up in the mountains; and by the way, we're on snow now: Melchior ought to rope us. How do we know there are not crevasses close at hand?" He turned to speak to the guide, and found Saxe standing there staring back. "Hallo!" he cried, "where's Melchior?"

"I don't know," faltered Saxe.

"Didn't you see him jump over the crack?"

"No. Didn't you?"

"It was such a trifle, I did not think of it. Good heavens! he has not met with an accident? Ah, that noise!"

They turned back together for about a hundred yards over the smooth snow, following their own steps clearly marked in the white surface; and then stopped short aghast, for the deeply indented place in the snow where they had landed in their jump was gone, and in its stead they saw a great triangular-shaped opening widening the crevasse to more than double its original dimensions, while just at its edge close to their feet there was a peculiar mark, such as would have been made by an ice-axe suddenly struck down through the snow to plough its way till it disappeared over the edge.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A FEARFUL WATCH.

It was all plain enough now. The weight of the two who had first leaped must have cracked a portion of the edge of the crevasse—a part rotten from long exposure to the sun, rain and frost. Then Melchior must have sprung over, the great triangular piece had given way, he had made a desperate attempt to save himself with his axe, but that had not struck home, and he had gone down with the mass of ice and snow, the echoing crash and boom having drowned any cry he might have uttered, even if he had time to call for help.

Saxe gave one horrified look at his companion, and then, stepping aside to the unbroken part of the crevasse, he went down on his hands and knees in the snow, then upon his breast, and drew himself close to the edge till his head and chest were over and he could peer down.

"Take care! take care!" cried Dale hoarsely, though he was doing precisely the same. "Can you see anything?"

Saxe's negative sounded like a groan, for he could see nothing but the pale blue sides of the ice going down perpendicularly to where, growing from pale to dark blue, they became black as the darkness out of which came the deep, loud, hissing, rushing sound of waters which he had heard before.

"He must be lying down there stunned by his fall!" cried Dale; and then to himself, in a whisper full of despair—"if he is not killed."

"Melk! Melk!" yelled Saxe just then. But there was nothing but the strange echo of his own voice, mingled with the curious hissing rush of water, which sounded to the listeners like the hurried whisperings and talk of beings far down below.

"Ahoy, Melchior!" cried Dale, now shouting with all his might.

No answer; and he shouted again.

"Do—do you feel sure he did fall down here?" said Saxe with difficulty, for his voice seemed to come from a throat that was all dry, and over a tongue that was parched.

"There can be no doubt about it," said Dale sadly. "Oh, poor fellow! poor fellow! I feel as if I am to blame for his death."

"Melk—Mel-chi-or!" shouted Saxe, with his hands to his mouth, as he lay there upon his chest, and he tried to send his voice down into the dark depths below.

There was a curious echo, that was all; and he lay listening to the rushing water and trying to pierce the darkness which looked like a mist.

At another time he would have thought of the solemn beauty of the place, with its wonderful gradations of blue growing deeper as they descended. Now there was nothing but chilly horror, for the chasm was to him the tomb of the faithful companion and friend of many days.

Dale shouted again with all his might, but there were only the awe-inspiring, whispering echoes, as his voice reverberated from the smoothly fractured ice, and he rose to his feet, but stood gazing down into the crevasse.

"Yes, he is lying there, stunned and helpless—perhaps dead," he added to himself. "Saxe, one of us must go down and help him."

"Of course," cried Saxe, speaking out firmly, though a curious sensation of shrinking came over him as he spoke. "I'll go."

"I would go myself, boy," said Dale huskily; "but it is impossible. You could not draw me out, and I'm afraid that I could not climb back; whereas I could lower you down and pull you up again."

"Yes, I'll go!" cried Saxe excitedly.

"One moment, my lad. You must recollect what the task means."

"To go down and help Melchior."

"Yes; and taking the rope from round your waist to tie it round his for me to draw him up first. Have you the courage to do that!"

Saxe was silent.

"You see, it means staying down there alone in that place till I can send you back the rope. There must be no shrinking, no losing your head from scare. Do you think you have the courage to do this coolly!"

Saxe did not speak for a few moments, and Dale could see that his face looked sallow and drawn till he had taken a long, deep breath, and then he said quickly.

"No, I haven't enough courage to do it properly; but I'm going down to do it as well as I can."

"God bless you, my boy!" cried Dale earnestly, as he grasped Saxe's hand. "There, lay down your axe while I fasten on the rope, and then I'll drive mine down into this crack and let the rope pass round it. I can lower you down more easily then. Ah!"

He ejaculated this last in a tone full of disappointment, for as he suddenly raised his hands to his breast, he realised the absence of that which he had before taken for granted—the new rope hanging in a ring over his shoulder.

"The ropes!" cried Saxe excitedly. "Melk has one; the other is hanging in the tent. Here, I'll run back."

"No," said Dale; "I am stronger and more used to the work: I'll go. You shout every now and then. Even if he does not answer you he may hear, and it will encourage him to know that we are near."

"But hadn't we better go back for help?"

"Before we could get it the poor fellow might perish from cold and exhaustion. Keep up your courage; I will not be a minute longer than I can help."

He was hurrying along the upper side of the crevasse almost as he spoke, and then Saxe felt his blood turn cold as he saw his companion step back and leap over from the snow on to the ice at the other side, and begin to descend the glacier as rapidly as the rugged nature of the place would allow.

Saxe stood watching Dale for some time, and saw him turn twice to wave his hand, while he became more than ever impressed by the tiny size of the descending figure, showing as it did how vast were the precipices and blocks of ice, and how enormous the ice river on which he stood, must be.

Then, as he gazed, it seemed that another accident must have happened, for Dale suddenly disappeared as if swallowed up in another crevasse. But, as Saxe strained his eyes downward into the distance, he caught a further glimpse of his companion as he passed out from among some pyramids of ice, but only to disappear again. Then Saxe saw his head and shoulders lower down, and after an interval the top of his cap, and he was gone.

To keep from dwelling upon the horror of his position, alone there in that icy solitude, Saxe lay down again, with his face over the chasm, and hailed and shouted with all his might. But still there was no reply, and he rose up from the deep snow once more, and tried to catch sight of Dale; but he had gone. And now, in spite of his efforts to be strong and keep his head cool, the horror began to close him in like a mist. Melchior had fallen down that crevasse, and was killed. Dale had gone down to their camp to fetch the rope, but he was alone. He had no guide, and he might lose his way, or meet with an accident too, and fall as Melchior had fallen. Even if he only had a slip, it would be terrible, for he might lie somewhere helpless, and never be found.

In imagination, as he stood here, Saxe saw himself waiting for hours, perhaps for days, and no help coming. And as to returning, it seemed impossible to find his way farther than their camp; for below the glacier Melchior had led them through a perfect labyrinth of narrow chasms, which he had felt at the time it would be impossible to thread alone.

It required a powerful mental drag to tear his thoughts away from these wild wanderings to the present; and, determining to forget self, he tried hard to concentrate his mind, not upon his own position, but upon that of the poor fellow who lay somewhere below.

He lay down once more in the snow, shrinkingly, for in spite of his efforts, the thought would come, "Suppose a great piece of the side should give way beneath me, and carry me down to a similar fate to Melchior's." These fancies made him move carefully in his efforts to peer down farther than before, so as to force his eyes to pierce the gloom and make out where Melchior lay.

But it was all in vain. He could see a long way, and sometimes it almost seemed as if he saw farther than at others; but lower down there was always that purply transparent blackness into which his eyesight plunged, but could not quite plumb.

"I wonder how deep it is?" said Saxe aloud, after shouting till he grew hoarse, and speaking out now for the sake of hearing a voice in that awful silence. "I wonder how deep it is?" he said again, feeling startled at the peculiar whisper which had followed his words. "It must go right down to the rocks which form the bottom of the valley, and of course this ice fills it up. It may be fifty, a hundred, or five hundred feet. Who can say?"

The thought was very terrible as he gazed down there, and once more imagination was busy, and he mentally saw poor Melchior falling with lightning speed down, down through that purply-blackness, to lie at last at a tremendous depth, jammed in a cleft where the crevasse grew narrower, ending wedge-shape in a mere crack.

He rose from the snow, beginning to feel chilled now; and he shook off the glittering crystals and tramped heavily up and down in the warm sunshine, glad of the reflection from the white surface as well, though it was painful to his eyes.

But after forming a narrow beat a short distance away from the crevasse, he ceased as suddenly as he had begun, feeling that he might even there be doing something which would cause the ice to crack; and he had hardly come to the conclusion that he would go gently in future, when a peculiar rending, splitting sound fell upon his ears, and he knew that it was the ice giving way and beginning to form a new crevasse.

For the first few moments he fancied that it was beneath his feet; but, as it grew louder and developed into a heavy sudden report, he knew that it must be some distance away.

He crept back to the crevasse, and listened and shouted again, to begin wondering once more how deep the chasm would be; and at last, with the horror of being alone there in that awful solitude creeping over him, he felt that he must do something, and, catching up his ice-axe from where it lay, he tramped away fifty yards to where a cluster of ragged pinnacles of ice hung together, and with a few blows from the pick-end of the axe he broke off a couple of fragments as big as his head, and then bounded back.

None too soon, for the towering piece which he had hacked at suddenly turned over towards him, and fell forward with a crash that raised the echoes around, as it broke up into fragments of worn and honeycombed ice.

As soon as he had satisfied himself that no other crag would fall, he stepped back, and, as he picked up two more pieces about the same size as he had selected before, he saw why the serac had fallen.

Heaped around as it had been with snow, it had seemed to have quite a pyramidal base, but the solid ice of its lower parts had in the course of time been eaten away till it was as fragile as the waxen comb it in some places resembled, and had crumbled down as soon as it received a shock.

Carrying his two pieces back, Saxe set them down at the edge of the crevasse, about a dozen yards from where Melchior had fallen; and, then going back along the side to that spot, he shouted again—a dismal, depressing cry, which made his spirits lower than before; and at last, after waiting some time for a reply, knowing all the while that it would not come, he crept back to where he had laid the two pieces of ice, and stood looking down at them, hesitating as to whether he should carry out his plan.

"I must be doing something," he cried piteously. "If I stand still in the snow, thinking, I shall go mad. It will be hours before Mr Dale gets back, and it is so dreadful to do nothing but think—think—think."

He gazed about him, to see a peak here and a peak there, standing up dazzling in its beauty, as it seemed to peer over the edge of the valley; but the glory had departed, and the wondrous river of ice, with its frozen waves and tumbling waters and solid foam, all looked cold and terrible and forbidding.

"I must do something," said Saxe at last, as if answering some one who had told him it would be dangerous to throw pieces of ice into the crevasse. "It is so far away from where he fell that it cannot hurt him. It will not go near him, and I want to know how far down he has fallen."

He laid down his ice-axe, picked up one of the lumps, balanced it for a moment or two, and then pitched it into the narrow chasm, to go down on his hands and knees the next instant and peer forward and listen.

He was so quick that he saw the white block falling, and as it went lower it turned first of a delicate pale blue, then deeper in colour, and deeper still, and then grew suddenly dark purple and disappeared, while, as Saxe strained eyes and ears, there came directly after a heavy crash, which echoed with a curious metallic rumble far below.

"Not so very deep," cried Saxe, as he prepared to throw down the other piece; and, moving a few yards farther along towards the centre of the glacier, he had poised the lump of ice in his hands, when there came a peculiar hissing, whishing sound from far below and he shrank back wondering, till it came to him by degrees that the piece he had thrown down must have struck upon some ledge, shattered to fragments, and that these pieces had gone on falling, till the hissing noise he had heard was caused by their disappearing into water at some awful depth below.

Saxe stood there with the shrinking sensation increasing, and it was some time before he could rouse himself sufficiently to carry out his first intention and throw the second piece of ice into the gulf. As it fell his heart beat heavily, and he once more dropped upon his hands and knees to follow its downward course and watch the comparatively slow and beautiful changes through which it passed before it disappeared in the purply-black darkness, while he listened for the crash as it broke upon the ledge preparatory to waiting in silence for the fall of the fragments lower down.

But there was no crash—no hissing, spattering of small fragments dropping into water—nothing but the terrible silence, which seemed as if it would never end; and at last a heavy dull splash, the hissing of water, and a curious lapping sound repeated by the smooth water, till all died away, and there was silence once again. "Awful!" muttered Saxe, as he wiped his damp brow. "Poor Melchior!—no wonder he didn't answer to my cries."

A feeling of weary despondency came over the boy now, and he shrank away from the edge and threw himself down on the snow.

For it was hopeless, he knew. And when Mr Dale returned he should have to tell him of his terrible discovery; when he, too, would own that no human being could fall down that terrible gulf and live.

The snow was cold beneath him, and the sun poured down upon his back with blistering power, but the boy felt nothing save the despairing agony of mind; and as he lay there one desire, one wish came to his mind, and that was full of longing for forgetfulness—the power to put all this terrible trouble behind him—a miserable feeling of cowardice: in short, of desire to evade his share of the cares of life, which come to all: for he had yet to learn what is the whole duty of a man.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"YOU THINK HE IS DEAD?"

Saxe never knew how long it was before he was roused from his miserable lethargic state by a faint hail, which acted upon him like magic, making him spring to his feet and answer before going back to the edge of the crevasse, and uttering a cry that was doleful in the extreme.

Then he shaded his eyes and gazed downward beneath the labyrinth of ice blocks among which the smoother ice which had formed their path wound its way; but for a long time he could see nothing of Dale, and he was beginning to ask himself whether it was fancy, when there was another hail, and soon after he caught sight of Dale's head and shoulders as he climbed up the icy slope, and saw that the new rope was across his breast.

But this sent no thrill of joy through Saxe, for he seemed instinctively to know that it would be useless, and he shook his head.

In another ten minutes Dale came panting up, and, without hesitation, leaped the chasm.

"Well," he said, "you have heard him?"

"No."

"Has he not answered once?"

"No."

Dale stood frowning and in silence for some seconds, before saying sternly, "well, we have our duty to do, Saxe. We must get him out."

"Yes, I'm ready," replied the boy; and he stood watching as Dale took the coil of rope from his shoulder, a ball of thin string from his coat pocket, and the lanthorn from his ice-axe, to whose head he had slung it as he came.

"Ah!" cried Saxe, "you have brought the lamp and string. You are going to let down a light for us to see where he lies?"

"I was going to, my boy; but I think better of it now. You shall go down without. It looks dark there, but it will not be so very black. The long light across will strike down."

Saxe told him about the pieces of ice he had thrown down, and Dale looked terribly serious.

"So deep as that?" he muttered. Then quickly: "But one piece struck on some ledge. He must have fallen there. Now, lay down your axe, but you must take it with you."

Saxe obeyed, and set his teeth hard, as Dale scraped away the snow and found almost directly a narrow crack which ran parallel with the crevasse, but so slight that there was just room to force down the stout ashen staff which formed the handle of the ice-axe, the top of it and about a foot of the staff standing above the ice.

"That's firm as rock," said Dale, after trying it. "I could trust myself to it, and the rope will run round it easily."

"You think the rope is strong enough?" said Saxe.

"I had it thoroughly tested before we left England. I could venture to hang a bull from it, or two or three men. But, ones for all, I have no right to send you down there. Tell me you dare not go, and I will give up, and we must go in search of help, for this is a terrible task. You would rather not go?"

Saxe was silent.

"Speak!"

"I won't," cried Saxe passionately; and then to himself, "I'd die first."

He held up his arms for Dale to knot the rope about him, watching the process with knitted brow.

"There: that is safe," said Dale. "Now pick up your ice-axe and hold by the rope with your left hand, so as to ease the strain upon your chest. Use the ice-axe cautiously, to keep yourself from turning round and from striking against the side. When you get down to the ledge, which must be, from what you say, only just out of sight, you will chip a secure place for your feet if the ice slopes, and, proceeding quite slowly and calmly, make yourself first quite safe. When this is done, unfasten the rope from about you, and make it fast about poor Melchior. Be very particular about the knot, mind. Don't forget what I have taught you. That knot must not slip in any way, either in tightening round his chest or coming undone."

"I'll remember," panted Saxe.

"That's right. Now then, I think that is all, except a final word. There is no danger for you to dread. The rope is new and strong, and I am at one end."

"You will not let it slip through your hands?"

Dale smiled at him sadly, and shook his head.

"Ready?" he said.

"Yes."

"Take off your hat."

Saxe obeyed, and Dale removed his and knelt down in the snow, Saxe slowly sinking upon his knees.

There was a minute's silence as a brief, heartfelt prayer was offered up for help: and then Dale sprang to his feet with an eager, bright, cheerful look upon his face, and, clapping a hand on either side of Saxe's waist, he lifted him by his belt and set him down again.

"Why, I could draw up half a dozen of you," he said. "Now, steady! Down with you, and slide over. Saxe, you are going to the rescue of a fellow-man."

The boy set his teeth, his brow furrowed, and there were marks about his eyes, as he saw Dale throw the rope round the handle of the ice-axe, and then over the coil, so that the rings of rope should come off freely. Then he grasped the hemp firmly with one hand, his ice-axe with the other, and threw back his legs over the edge of the crevasse close to where the great piece had broken away. As he did this a piece of snow slipped from under his chest, and went down before him and he was over the side, swinging gently to and fro, as he heard a spattering noise come from below.

"Don't be afraid to talk, Saxe," said Dale loudly; and every word came distinctly to the boy's ears as the sides of the crevasse slowly rose above him, and, in spite of himself, he turned his eyes up with a wild longing toward the deep blue sky.

"I—I can't talk," he gasped forth.

"All right—steady! Take it coolly, lad."

"Yes; only don't ask me to talk till I've something to say."

"No!" shouted Dale, as the sides of the crevasses grew more distant and represented two jagged lines against the sky. "Splendid rope, Saxe!" came down to him; "runs as easily as if it were made of silk. Cut your chest?"

"Not much," shouted the boy, who for an instant felt a sensation of danger as the rope turned him round; but, remembering his instructions, he touched the wall of clear ice with the point at the end of the axe handle, checked himself, and tried to look downward into the blue transparent light which rose up to meet him, as it seemed.

"Half the rope out, Saxe!" came from above. "See anything!"

"No."

"Bit lower down, I suppose. Don't let it turn."

The two edges of the crevasse now began to approach, each other, as it seemed to Saxe; and he could see that, except where the piece was broken away, they exactly matched, every angle on the one side having its depression on the other, the curves following each other with marvellous exactness, just as if the fracture were one of only a few weeks old.

"See the ledge, Saxe?" came down.

"No;" and the lad felt an intense longing now to be able to see Dale's face watching him, for it would have seemed like companionship, instead of his having nothing to gaze at but the strip of blue sky, and the glistening blue-ice walls on either side going off to right and left till they seemed to come together in the blue gloom.

And still the rope glided over the ice above, and the slip of sky grew narrow; but though Saxe peered down into the depths, there was no sign of any ledge, and the boy who now felt less nervous, was wondering how much longer the rope was, when Dale's voice was heard.

"No more rope!" he cried. "Now, can you see the ledge?"

Saxe gazed down in silence for a few moments, and Dale's voice came again—short, sharp and impatient:

"I say, can you see the ledge?"

"No."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Yes."

There was a pause, and then Dale's voice was heard again:

"Does the rope hurt you much?"

"No."

"Can you bear it five minutes longer!"

"Yes—a quarter of an hour."

"Bravo! Wait."

There was a strange silence then, during which Saxe gazed down below him; but he could see no more than when he had been at the top, only that everything looked blacker and more profound, and that the noise of waters was more plain as it reverberated from the slippery walls.

"What is he doing?" thought Saxe. "I hope he will soon draw me up;" and a momentary feeling of panic came over him, and the rope felt painfully cutting. But just then he caught sight of a dark object against the sky. The dark object seemed to be descending, and the next moment he saw that it was light, and he knew that the lanthorn was being sent down at the end of the string.

"Call to me if the rope hurts you too much," cried Dale; and to his horror and astonishment Saxe, as he looked up, saw that his companion's head and shoulders were over the side, and it was as if a black face were looking down at his.

"The rope doesn't hurt; but—but—is it safe!"

"Perfectly; and I am letting down the light so that you may see where the ledge is."

"I understand."

The lanthorn glided down very rapidly, and in a few moments was level with Saxe's face. Then it descended still, and Dale called to him to say when it should be stopped; but it was some time before the boy sharply uttered the word, "Now!"

"See the ledge?"

"Yes—with some broken ice upon it."

"Does he seem much hurt?"

Saxe was silent for a few moments, and then said huskily—

"He is not there!"

"He must be. Look again."

"Swing the lanthorn backwards and forwards."

Dale responded by gradually making the lanthorn describe a considerable arc.

"No—no! No—no!" cried Saxe, as he swept the ledge with his eyes from end to end.

Dale was silent for a time. Then he said huskily—

"Can you hold out while I lower the lanthorn as far as the string will go?"

"Yes."

The light descended like a star going down into another firmament of as deep and dark a blue as that above; and as Saxe watched he saw it reflected from the dark walls. Then lower, lower, and down and down, till suddenly it stopped.

"That is all the string—a hundred yards. Can you see him now!"

"No!" said Saxe hoarsely.

"You can see nothing!"

"Only the lamp swinging and the ice shining."

"Hold fast!" cried Dale, and the rope began to quiver in a peculiar way, as if it were receiving a series of jerks; but Saxe guessed that this must mean that it was being hauled up handover-hand. There was no one gazing down at him now, and he had a full view of the blue strip of sky, which now grew broader and broader, till, after what seemed to have been a very long ascent, the top of the crevasse was reached.

"Now," said Dale, "reach over as far as you can, and drive in the pick of your axe."

Saxe obeyed.

"Now try and draw yourself up. That's right. I've got hold of the rope. Now—together! That's right."

There was a heavy tug, and as some more snow rattled down into the gulf Saxe was drawn over the edge on to the surface, where the first thing he noticed was the fact that the other end of the rope had been fastened round Dale's waist and passed round the ashen handle, so that when Dale had lain down he had been able to support Saxe, and yet leave his hands free.

"Untie yourself," said Dale gravely. "I am going to draw up the lanthorn."

"And what are you going to do then?" asked Saxe, who lay on the snow panting, as if he had just gone through some very great exertion.

"Go back and give notice. Get together two or three guides, and consult with them as to what is best to be done."

"Then you give him up?" said Saxe mournfully.

Dale looked at him in silence, for there seemed to be no answer needed to such a question, as he slowly wound in the string which held the lanthorn.

"Now, back to the valley as fast as we can," said Dale, as he dragged his ice-axe out of the crack and threw the rope over his shoulder, and glanced round at the sky. "Got the lanthorn and string?"

"Yes," replied Saxe; "but we cannot get there before night."

"We cannot get any farther than the camp before dark, my boy," said Dale sadly. "It is impossible to go on then. We must wait there till daybreak, and then go for help."

"One minute, sir," said Saxe; but it was three or four before he could go on.

"Yes," said Dale.

"I only wanted to ask whether you think he is dead!"

"I'd give five years of my life, boy, to be able to say no; but I cannot!"



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

FROM OUT OF THE DEPTHS.

They began to descend the great ice-torrent in solemn silence; but before they had gone fifty yards Saxe stopped short, darted a wild, apologetic look at Dale, and began to run back toward the crevasse.

Dale followed him more slowly, and reached the boy as he was lying down with his head and shoulders over the brink.

"Mel—chi—or!" shouted Saxe, with his hands on either side of his mouth—a long-drawn, piteous cry, in which he formed the name into three syllables; and as Dale leaned over and listened to the strange hollow reverberations down below, it was as if a voice repeated the last syllable in a faint, appealing whisper.

"There!" cried Saxe excitedly; "I couldn't go without trying once more. I knew it: he isn't dead! You heard that?"

"Yes," said Dale, with a pitying look at his companion, "I heard that."

"Well? He's not dead. I'll stay here, and keep shouting to him now and then, while you go for help. Run at once. Stop a minute. Give me your flask; I'll lower it down to him with the string."

"Saxe, my lad," said Dale sadly, "you are buoying yourself up with false hopes."

"No, no! I heard him answer distinctly," cried Saxe wildly. "Hark! I'll call again. Melchior, Mel—chi—or!"

He gave forth the last cry with all his might, emphasising the "chi— or!" and, probably from his being on the opposite side of the crevasse, and more favourably placed for the acoustic phenomenon, the syllables were repeated, after a pause, faintly but distinctly—an effect that had not been produced by any of the lad's cries on the other side of the crevasse.

"There!" cried Saxe.

Dale laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder, and shook his head sadly. Then, bending down, he too shouted—

"A-hoy-oy-oy!"

And, after a pause, there came up distinctly the latter part of the word.

"Ahoy!" shouted Dale again, sharply.

"Hoy!" came up.

"You hear," said Dale. "It is only an echo. A man down there in peril would not repeat words. In nine cases out of ten he would cry 'help!'"

Saxe turned away from the crevasse with a groan that told how forcibly his companion's words had gone home; but he turned back again.

"It seems so cruel to come away even if he is dead," he whispered. "Shall I stop while you go!"

"No, Saxe. If we could hear him answer, I should at any cost say Stay, or I would myself stop, for I believe that a word or two from time to time would have encouraged him to struggle on for his life. But to stay there by that crevasse through the night, without proper protection, might mean your death. The cold up here must be terrible. Come."

Saxe followed him slowly, with his head bent to hide the tears standing in his eyes, and then Dale took his arm.

"We have done our duty so far," he said; "and we are doing it now in going for help to try and rescue the poor fellow's remains from yon icy tomb. Believe me, my lad, I would not come away if there was anything more that we could do."

Saxe was silent for a few minutes, as they tramped on over the ice, which was now beginning to take a warm tint in the afternoon's sunlight. Then, making an effort, he spoke: "You will of course get men and ropes?"

"Yes; and bring back a crowbar or tamping iron, and a heavy hammer to drive it into the ice."

Saxe sighed, and, forgetting his weariness, stepped out quickly over the rugged way, as they kept as nearly as they could to the invisible track they had followed during the ascent.

The sun was now getting so low down that the great ragged pyramids and crags of ice cast fantastic shadows eastward. There was a deep orange glow in the sky, and at another time they would have stopped enchanted by the dazzling beauty of the effects before them; but now Saxe could see nothing but the pale face of their guide, as he lay far below with his staring eyes fixed upon the narrow rift beyond which was the evening sky; and at such times as the boy conjured up this ghastly picture in his brain, his eyes grew misty, and he stumbled and slipped upon the rugged ice which formed their way.

"We must press on," said Dale; "we have not come down above a mile, and it is a long way yet. We must not be amongst these seracs and crevasses after dark."

"I can walk faster," said Saxe heavily, and he increased his pace.

But it was in many places a task requiring careful descent, and every time they came upon a crevasse Saxe felt a curious shrinking, which called for a strong effort of will to enable him to make the necessary spring to leap across, while several of the wider ones which had been leaped in coming up were now avoided by a detour to the left.

All these incidents made their descent slower; and as Dale thought of the long distance yet to go, he grew more and more anxious.

"Saxe," he said at last, as they were now slowly passing along the rocks by the side of the glacier, which they had now left to avoid some patches of rugged ice, "I'm afraid we shall have to rest here in some niche as soon as darkness comes on. I can't trust to my memory to find the way farther when the light has gone."

"What's that?" said Saxe, catching his arm.

Dale stopped and listened; but the place was utterly still for a few minutes, and then there was a sharp crack and a rattling noise.

"Piece of ice broken off and fallen."

"No, no; I did not mean that," cried Saxe, as his eyes wandered upward among the broken ice now beginning to look cold and grey. "There!— there!"

A faint chipping sound was heard as the lad spoke; but as they stood in quite a trough between the steep rock of the valley side and the jagged masses of ice, it was impossible to say exactly from whence it came.

"Yes, I heard it," said Dale, as the sound ceased. "There must be some one on the ice: it sounded just like cutting steps. Listen again."

They stood motionless, but all was perfectly still.

"Come along," cried Dale; "we cannot waste time. It must have been the ice giving way somewhere. Perhaps it was the splitting sound of a crevasse opening."

"There it is again!" cried Saxe.

"Yes; it must be some one cutting steps: but it is evidently a long way off. We can't see from here, but some one must be on the mountain above us, and the sound comes through the clear air, and strikes against the valley wall over yonder. Yes: hark! It seems to come from there; but, depend upon it, the cause is high up overhead."

They started again, for everything was growing greyer, and in spite of the hard work they both began to feel cold. But they had not gone a dozen steps before the sound began again, and Saxe cried excitedly—

"It's from out on the glacier somewhere. There are people there, and we shall get help."

There was so much, decision in the boy's utterance that Dale was impressed, and he stopped short close up to the ice, listening to the chipping sound, which was distinctly heard now, though very faint.

All at once Saxe went forward a step or two, and then dropped upon his knees on the stone where the ice stood a few inches away from the rock, melted and worn by the water that evidently tore down at times.

"Well?" said Dale, as Saxe listened.

"Yes, you can hear it more plainly here," said the boy.

"No!"

"Come and listen."

Dale laid his head against the ice, and for a few moments nothing was heard.

"No," said Dale; "it is what I told you—an echo from above. People don't cut steps on glaciers, the slope is not enough. Ah! yes. It does certainly seem to come from the ice."

Saxe looked at him wildly. His head was in a whirl, full of thoughts, which seemed to jostle each other, while Dale stood listening to the steady chip, chip, chip.

"I cannot quite make it out."

"There's some one cutting down there," cried Saxe.

"No. The sound is carried a long way; but some one must be cutting steps in the ice not far from here."

"Then it is not an echo?"

"No, I think not; but I am not sure."

"Let's see!" cried Saxe excitedly.

"It is like wasting time, my boy; but it may mean the help we want. Yes, we will see."

Dale began to climb on the ice once more, but Saxe hung back.

"The sound comes from down here," he said.

"Possibly. But come up here, and we may hear it more plainly. Give me your hand."

"I can manage," cried Saxe, and he seemed to have forgotten his exhaustion as he sprang up the rugged blocks, and wound in and out till they came to a smooth part, where Dale halted.

"Yes," he said, as the chipping went on; "the ice conducts the sound. It comes more from the centre of the glacier."

"It doesn't," said Saxe to himself. "I'm sure it comes from below."

But he said nothing aloud, only followed his companion as he led him on, and in and out, with the sound playing with their ears as the will-o'-the-wisp is said to play with the eyes.

For sometimes it was heard plainly. Then, as they wandered on amidst quite a labyrinth of piled-up ice that at another time they would have shunned in dread of danger, and through which they were now impelled by a strange feeling of excitement, the noise died quite away.

At such times they were in despair; but as they pressed on they could hear the chipping again.

Finally Dale stopped short, beneath a tall spire of ice, and held up his hand.

"I'm afraid we have wasted a valuable half-hour, Saxe," he said. "There can be nothing here."

They shouted as they had shouted a dozen times before, but there was no response, and Dale turned wearily in the direction from which they had come, the perpendicular rocks of the valley indicating the course they had to take, when suddenly the sound began again, apparently from close beneath their feet.

"It must be out here," cried Saxe; and he went off to his right, and at the end of a minute reached a comparatively level space that they had not seen before.

"Take care!" cried Dale. "A crevasse over yonder."

Chip, chip, chip. There was the sound again, and as Saxe laid his ear against the ice he heard it more distinctly.

"We're getting nearer," he cried. "It sounds underneath, but is farther away. I know! I'm sure! I've felt it ever so long now. There's some one down below."

Dale said nothing, but he thought the same, and stepping forward side by side with the boy, they strode on together, with the chipping growing plainer; and as their further progress was stopped by a wide crevasse all doubt was at an end.

The sounds came up from the vast rift, which seemed in the failing light to run in a peculiar waving zigzag right across the glacier for nearly half a mile.

Saxe uttered a curious hoarse sound, as he dropped upon his knees close to the edge of the crevasse.

"Take care, boy; the ice is slippery."

Saxe made no reply, but peered shuddering down into the black darkness, and tried to shout; but his throat was dry, and not a sound would come.

It was Dale who shouted, as he now bent over the crevasse.

"Ahoy! Any one there?"

His voice went reverberating down through the caverns of the ice, and as the sound died away there came an answer—

"Au secours! Help!"

"Melchior!" yelled Saxe wildly; and the voice came again from out of the black darkness—

"Help!"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A RESCUE.

For a few moments Dale and Saxe knelt together there, with their hearts throbbing wildly at their discovery. There was a bewildering train of thoughts, too, running through their minds, as to how the poor fellow could have got there; and Saxe could only find bottom in one idea—that they had been confusedly wandering about, returning another way, till they had accidentally hit upon a further development of the great crevasse into which the guide had fallen.

All this was momentary, and then Dale was speaking.

"He must be a long way off to the right here, cutting his way up, and the ice conducted the sound. Come,—carefully. It would be terrible if you slipped."

"I sha'n't slip!" cried Saxe firmly, and he followed on.

"Ahoy!" shouted Dale. "Where are you?"

"Here!" came from the right still, but apparently from the other side, the voice sounding hollow and strange.

Dale caught Saxe's arm.

"Are we on the wrong side of the crevasse!" he muttered. But he went on for another twenty yards and called.

The answer still came from the right, but not from the opposite side, the former effect being simply reverberation. Another thirty yards or so brought them to where the hollow-sounding voice seemed to come up from straight below them; and they lay down to speak.

"Don't ask questions about how he came there. Let me speak only," whispered Dale. "Where are you?" he shouted.

"Nearly below you, herr," came up feebly. "So cold and faint."

"Hold on," shouted Dale. "Now, Saxe, the ball of string and the lanthorn. Light it quickly."

The boy's hands trembled so that he could hardly obey, and two matches were spoiled by the touch of his wet fingers before the lamp burned bright and clear.

Meanwhile Dale had been securing the lanthorn to the end of the string.

"Melchior," he shouted, "I'm sending you down the light."

His words were short and sharp, and now he lay down and began to lower the lanthorn rapidly, its clear flame reflected from the ice wall, and revealing bit by bit the horrors of the terrible gulf, with its perpendicular walls.

Down, down, down went the lamp, till Saxe's heart sank with it, and with a look of despair he watched it and that which it revealed,—for he could see that it would be impossible for anyone to climb the ice wall, and the lamp had gone down so far that it was beyond the reach of their rope.

"Terribly deep down," said Dale, half aloud, as he watched the descending lanthorn.

"Ah! I see him!" cried Saxe. "He is just below the light, on that ledge. Yes, and the ice slopes down from there."

"Can you get it?" cried Dale loudly. "Not yet, herr," came up feebly. "Lower."

"There is not much more string, Saxe," whispered Dale: "get the rope ready."

But before this could be done the feeble voice from below cried, "Hold!" and they could see, at a terrible depth, the lanthorn swinging, and then there was the clink of metal against metal, and a horrible cry and a jarring blow.

"He has fallen!" cried Saxe. "No: he has got hold, and is climbing back."

Faintly as it was seen, it was plain enough to those who watched with throbbing pulses. The lanthorn had been beyond Melchior's reach, and as he lay there on a kind of shelf or fault in the ice, he had tried to hook the string toward him with his ice-axe, slipped, and would have gone headlong down lower, but for the mountaineer's instinctive effort to save himself by striking his axe-pick into the ice.

No one spoke, but every pulse was throbbing painfully as the man's actions were watched, down far beneath them, he seeming to be in the centre of a little halo of light, while everything around was pitchy black.

"He has got it," muttered Saxe, after a painful pause; and then they heard the clink of the ice against the lanthorn, and saw the latter move, while directly after, from out of the silence below, there came the sound of a deeply drawn breath. "Can you hold on there?" said Dale then, sharply. "A little while, herr. I am cold, but hope will put life in me." Dale waited a few minutes, and Saxe touched him imploringly. "What shall we do?" he whispered. "Shall I go for help?"

"No. Get your axe, and begin cutting some foothold for us: three or four good deep, long notches, about a yard apart. Begin six or eight feet away from the edge. We want purchase to pull him out."

"But the rope—the rope!" cried Saxe. "Do as I tell you."

Saxe obeyed without a word, driving the pick-end into the ice, and making the chips fly in the grey light of evening, for the shadows were now falling fast; and as the lad worked and cut the deep groove, Dale bent over the crevasse and spoke.

"Better!" he said.

"Yes, herr: more life in me now."

"Have you your rope?"

Saxe stopped to listen for the answer, and, though it was only a matter of moments, he suffered agonies of expectation before he heard the answer.

"Yes."

"Take off the lanthorn and stand it by you, or fasten it to your belt."

"Yes, herr."

"Make fast your rope to the string, and let me draw it up."

"It will not reach, herr."

"I know. I have mine."

There was a pause only broken by the chipping of the ice-axe, and then the voice came up again in a hollow whisper—

"Ready!"

"If it will only bear it," muttered Dale, as he steadily drew upon the string, hand over hand, expecting moment by moment that it would part. But it bore the weight of the rope well, and in a few minutes he was able to lift the coil over the edge on to the glacier.

Saxe heard him give a sigh of relief as he bent down and drew it away; but he turned back to the crack directly, and shouted down in slow, solemn words—

"Keep a good heart man, and if it is to be done we'll save you."

"With God's help, herr," came up; and the voice sounded to Saxe, as he toiled away, less despairing.

"Now!" cried Dale, speaking quickly and excitedly: "pray with me, lad, that these two ropes together may be long enough. Quick! Out with your knife."

Saxe obeyed, and stood ready while Dale rapidly joined the two ropes together; but, not content with his knot, he cut off a couple of pieces of string, and rapidly bound down the loose ends so that they should by no possibility slip through the loops.

This done, and Saxe once more cutting the grooves he was making more deeply, Dale rapidly ran Melchior's rope through his hands, and made a knot and slip-noose.

"Keep on cutting," he said to Saxe. "No: a better idea. Pick a hole— there!" He stamped his foot in the place he meant. "Small and deep, so as to turn your axe into an anchor if we want its help. Work—hard!"

Saxe drove his axe down on to the ice with vigour, blow after blow sending the tiny crystals flying, while he had to fight down the intense desire to leave off and watch the rescue, as Dale began to lower the noose he had made.

"Is it long enough?—is it long enough?" he muttered, as he rapidly passed the rope through his hands, Saxe giving a side glance from time to time as he picked away.

Down went the whole length of the guide's line, and the knot passed Dale's hands, after which the weight was sufficient to draw down the new rope, whose rings uncoiled rapidly, and, as their number grew fewer, Saxe breathed hard, and he echoed Dale's words, "Will it be long enough?"

The last coil but three—the last coil but two—the last coil but one— the last coil; and Dale's nervous right hand closed upon the very end, and he went close to the brink and looked down at the light.

"Can you reach it?" he shouted.

There was a pause, and then the voice came up—

"No! Lower a little more."

Dale groaned. Then, lying down, he held his hands close to the edge, giving quite another three feet to the length.

"Can you reach it now?"

"No."

"How far off is it above you?"

There was a pause, and then—

"I can just touch it with the end of my finger. I am lying down, and holding on with one hand and my ice-axe. If I could use my axe, I could pull it down."

"No, no!" shouted Dale. "The rope is all out. Stop: if I give you another two feet, can you get your arm well through the noose I have made, and hang on?"

"I will try."

"Come here, Saxe. I am going to lean over the edge and hold the rope down as far as I can reach. Drive the head of your axe into the hole you have made, and hold on with one hand; take hold of my ankle with the other. There will be no strain upon you, but it will give me strength by holding me in my place."

The axe was driven in to hold like an anchor, and Saxe shuddered as he held by the handle and took a good grip of Dale by thrusting his fingers in at the top of his heavy mountaineering boot.

Then Dale shuffled himself as far over the brink as he dared, and stretched his arms down to their full extent.

"Now: can you do it?"

Another terrible pause.

"No, herr."

Dale groaned, and was wondering whether he could achieve his aim by drawing up the rope, re-knotting it, and making the noose smaller, but just then Melchior spoke.

"If I could free my ice-axe, I could hook on to it, herr. I can see the loop quite plainly, but I dare not stir—I can only move one hand."

"Wait!" cried Dale. "Ice-axe!"

He drew back, hauled up some of the rope, knelt upon it to keep it fast, and picked up his ice-axe, while Saxe watched him with dilated eyes, as he made a knot and passed the axe handle through to where the steel head stopped it like a cross. Then, cutting off more string, he bound the end of the rope to the handle of his axe, doubly and triply, so that slipping was impossible.

This took up nearly a foot for the knot; but the handle was nearly four feet long, so that by this scheme he gained another yard as an addition to the rope.

"I am at the end of my wits now, Saxe," he said softly; and then, with grim irony, "There is no need to wet my hands, boy."

"Now, Melchior!" he shouted; "try again!"

He was on his chest as he spoke, with his arms outstretched, holding tightly by the axe handle.

"Can you reach it?"

Saxe panted, and felt the insides of his hands grow wet and cold as he held on to his companion and listened for the answer that was terribly long in coming. The sensation was almost suffocating; he held his breath, and every nerve and muscle was on the strain for the words which seemed as if they would never reach his ears.

"Well?" shouted Dale, in a harsh, angry voice, his word sounding like a snarl.

"Can't quite—can't. Hah! I have it!"

"Hurrah!" burst out Saxe, giving vent in his homely, boyish way to his excitement.

Then, feeling ashamed of himself, he was silent and listened for every word.

"Get your arm right through, above the elbow."

"Yes, herr. Right."

"Pull, to tighten it."

"Yes, herr," came back.

"Ready? Sure it cannot slip?"

"It cuts right into my arm: never slip."

"Now, Saxe, I have him, boy; but Heaven knows whether I can get him up, lying like this. No: it is impossible; I have no strength, and the wood handle is not like rope."

"Oh!" groaned Saxe.

"If I could get to the rope, you might help me. It is impossible: I cannot lift him so."

"Can you hold on as you are?" said Saxe huskily.

"Yes; but I could not lift—I have no power."

"I must come too, and get hold of the handle. Will the head come off?"

"Hush! No. It is too new and strong. But you could not get hold to do any good. There—come and try."

Saxe unhooked his axe from the ice, for an idea had struck him; and, lying down close to Dale, who uttered a sigh of satisfaction as he grasped the boy's idea, he lowered down his axe, and hooked the rope with it just beneath Dale's.

"Good," whispered the latter,—"good. Ready?"

"Yes."

"Draw steadily hand over hand, till we can get the rope over the edge. Then throw your axe back, and take hold of the rope."

"Yes, I understand."

"Now, Melchior, we are going to haul."

There was no reply beyond what sounded like a groan; and the pair at the edge of the crevasse began to tighten the rope gently as they drew up their axes, with the weight gradually increasing; they saw by the light of the lanthorn that they first dragged the poor fellow up into a sitting position; and not having the full burden to deal with yet, Dale got a shorter hold of the axe handle, Saxe doing the same.

"Steady, steady: don't hurry, boy. It is these first moments that possess the danger. Once we have the rope I don't mind."

They hauled again hand over hand literally: for in their cribbed position they could do no more than just pass one hand over the other; but they were gaining ground, and even yet they had not the full weight, for fortunately as they hauled they could see the body swing round against the ice wall, and that Melchior's feet were on the dimly visible ledge.

"Now, Saxe, we have his whole weight coming; so as the strain falls, quick with him, one, two, three, and we shall have the rope. Once I can get that between us on to the edge, we shall have a lot of the drag off our arms. Now—one, two, three!"

How it was done they could neither of them afterwards have fully explained; but Saxe had some recollection of tugging at his ice handle in answer to those words of command till he touched the head with one hand, passed his other under it, and had hold of the rope.

"Now your axe!" shouted Dale; and Saxe unhooked it, and flung it behind him with a clang, as at the same time it felt to him as if his chest were being drawn slowly over the slippery ice, and that he was moving surely on into the gulf.

The perspiration stood out in great drops upon his face, his grasp of the rope grew more feeble, and the feeling of self-preservation was thrilling him, when suddenly there was a tremendous reaction; he drew a long breath, and was hauling with renewed strength.

It was all nearly momentary, and the reaction came as the boy felt his toes glide into one of the great notches he had cut in the ice.

"Steady, steady," panted Dale. "Oh, if I only had some purchase! Pull, and never mind the skin; get the rope over the edge. Hurrah!"

The rope was over the edge, and just between them, and but for the fact that Dale was able to get the head of his axe beneath his chest, and press it down on the ice, it would have glided back once more.

"Now, Saxe," he cried, "I can hold him like this for a few moments: the edge helps. Step back and take a grip of the axe handle."

Saxe obeyed, drawing the handle tight, and getting his boot toes in another of the notches.

"Now," cried Dale, "hold on with all your might while I shuffle back."

"Are you going to leave go?" growled Saxe.

"No."

That negative came like the roar of a wild beast.

"Got him tight," cried Saxe; and he set his teeth and shut his eyes, while, holding on with one hand, Dale shuffled himself back as far as he could—that is, to the full extent of his arms and the foot of rope he had dragged over the edge of the ice.

Then he paused for a moment or two.

"Now I want to get rope enough in for you to take hold."

"Will the ice edge cut?"

"No: the rope will cut down a smooth channel in the ice. Ready?— Together."

There was a brief interval of hauling, and several feet were drawn over, so that Saxe was able to get hold of the rope too; and they rested again, for in that position everything depended on their arms.

"Now I have him," cried Dale. "Hold on with one hand while you reach your axe, and anchor it in the hole you made."

"Done," cried Saxe.

"Haul again."

They hauled, and another foot or so was gained.

"Now hitch the rope well round the axe handle," cried Dale, "and get it tight."

This was done; the rope being twisted above the band of leather placed to keep the hand from slipping; and with this to take off the stress, Dale was able, while well holding on, to get to his knees, and then to his feet, when, planting his heels in one of the grooves cut in the ice, he took a fresh grip of the rope.

"Now, Saxe," he cried; "up with you! Behind me!"

The lad grasped the position, and leaped up and seized the rope behind Dale.

"Now, then!—a steady haul together!"

The battle seemed to be nearly won, for the rope glided on steadily over the ice, cutting pretty deeply the while, but after the first few seconds apparently without friction.

Foot by foot, a steady pull, till there was a sudden check.

"Hah!" ejaculated Dale. "I see. We are at the end of the new rope, and the knot has caught in the groove we've made. I can hold him, Saxe. Take your axe, and pick the ice away on one side. Mind! you must not touch the rope."

Saxe took his axe, and a few strokes with the pointed end broke off a good-sized piece. The knot glided over, and the next minute, with the same idea inspiring both, they began to haul up Melchior's rope.

Will this last out, and not be broken by the friction?

Foot by foot—foot by foot—till at any moment they felt they would see the man's hand appear; and all seemed to depend now upon the state in which the poor fellow would be in when he reached the surface. If he were perfectly helpless, the worst part, perhaps, of their task would come. If he could aid, it would be comparatively easy.

At last there was a faint glow of light behind the edge, which grew plainer in the gloom in which they had been working, and directly after Melchior's hand reached the edge.

Dale was a man of resource, and he was about to call upon Saxe to hitch the rope round the axe handle once more—that which acted as an anchor— when he saw in the faint glow that the fingers clutched at the edge.

"Haul! haul!" he cried; and as they pulled the whole arm appeared above the edge, and was stretched flat on the ice. And the next moment, with a dash, the guide's axe was swung over the edge, and the sharp point dug down into the glistening surface, giving the poor fellow a slight hold, which, little as it was, proved some help.

It has been said that Dale was a man of resource, and he proved it more than ever now.

"I can hold him," he cried. "Take the rope, and lower down a big loop right over his head. That's right: lower away." Then, as Saxe responded quickly, he cried to the guide, "Try if you can get one or both your legs through the loop."

There was a little scraping and movement before the poor fellow said, hoarsely—

"Through."

"Now, Saxe, twist the rope as quickly as you can, so as to get hold."

Saxe twisted the double rope till the loop closed upon the guide's leg; and then there was a momentary pause.

"Now, ready! When I say haul, try to help us all you can. Haul!"

Saxe had his heel in a groove, and he struggled with all his might, Melchior aiding him so effectually that, as Dale drew the poor fellow's arm farther, Saxe was able to raise the leg he held to the level; and the next moment the guide lay prone on the ice with the lanthorn still burning, and attached to the waist.

"Both together again!" cried Dale hoarsely; and they dragged him a few yards along the ice perfectly helpless, for he had exhausted himself in that last effort to reach the surface.

"Take—off—that—that light!" said Dale, in a strange tone of voice; and then, before Saxe could run to his assistance, he staggered toward the crevasse and fell heavily.

The boy's heart was in his mouth. For the moment it had seemed as if Dale were going headlong down, but he lay a good two feet from the edge, a distance which Saxe increased by drawing him over the ice; and then, himself utterly exhausted, he sank upon his knees helpless as a child, the ice glimmering in a peculiarly weird and ghastly way, the dark sky overhead—far from all aid—faint and famished from long fasting—and with two insensible men dumbly appealing to him for his assistance.

It was not at all a matter of wonder that Saxe should say piteously—

"What can I do? Was ever poor fellow so miserable before?"



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

A GREAT CALL ON A BOY.

Saxe's depression was only very temporary. As his breath, short from exertion, began to come more regularly, his thoughts dropped back from the tangle of weak helplessness into their proper common-sense groove.

Going to Dale, he turned him over on to his back, and then went to Melchior, who lay motionless; but he was quite sensible, and spoke.

Saxe drew out the flask, and poured a few drops between Dale's lips. Then, returning to the guide, he treated him in the same manner before clasping the poor fellow's hand between both his own, and crying in a choking voice—

"Oh, Melchior! Thank God—thank God!"

"Ja, herr," said the poor fellow in a whisper, as he reverted to his native tongue: "Gott sei dank!"

Just then Dale began to recover, and uttered a low groan; but consciousness came with one stride, and he sat up, looked sharply round, and said sharply—

"Surely I did not swoon? Ah! I was utterly exhausted. Well, Melchior, lad," he continued, with a forced laugh, "you are no light weight; but we tested the two ropes well. However did you get down to this place?"

"Don't ask me now, herr," said the guide. "I am weak, and want rest. Will you let me grasp your hand?"

"My dear fellow!" cried Dale eagerly, and he seized and held the poor fellow's hand in both of his. "Now, how are you? Can you get up and walk?"

"Oh, yes, herr; and the sooner the better, for I am wet, and it is so cold: I am nearly benumbed."

"Here, let's help you," cried Dale, and he and Saxe passed their arms under the poor fellow's shoulders and raised him up.

"Thank you—thank you!" he said. "It is the cold that makes me so helpless. Let me sit on that block for a few minutes while you coil up the ropes."

This was done; and then the question arose—whereabouts on the glacier were they?

"I think I know," said the guide, rather feebly.

"Yes: but you are not fit to move," said Saxe.

"I must move, young herr," replied the man sadly. "To stay as I am means a terrible illness, perhaps death. But I shall fight it down. The movement will send life into me. Now, have you the axes? Please to give me mine, and I shall creep along. We must get to the tent and a fire somehow."

"But you cannot lead, Melchior."

"I will lead, herr," he replied, as he rested on Saxe's shoulder. "Here in the mountains man must exert himself if he wishes to live. This way."

To the astonishment of both he used his ice-axe as a walking-stick, holding it by the steel head, striking the spike at the end of the handle into the slippery floor, and walking slowly but steadily on along the edge of the crevasse.

Saxe felt a strong inclination to go back and peer down into the black depths again, but he had to resist it, and, carrying the lanthorn, he followed close behind Melchior, with one hand raised, ready to snatch at him if he seemed disposed to fall.

It was very dark now, and the light from the lanthorn was reflected in a faint, sickly way from the ghostly-looking masses of ice as they threaded their way onward, the guide whispering to them to be silent and careful, as many of the huge pinnacles were unsteady.

But, in spite of their cautious procedure, one mass tottered over and came down with an awful crash just as Dale had passed; and the falling of this meant the destruction of a couple of others, the noise of their splintering raising an echo in the narrow gorge which ran upward reverberating like thunder.

Melchior did not speak, but hurried on, and, turning the end of the crevasse, led them diagonally off the ice and down into the narrow stony way between it and the walls of the valley.

Here he let himself sink down on a smooth slope of rock, to remain seated for a moment or two and then lie right down upon his back.

"It is nothing, herr," he said quietly,—"only weariness. May I beg for something?"

"Yes: what can we do!" cried Dale.

"Fill your pipe for me, herr, and light it. My tobacco is so wet it will not burn."

"Of course," cried Dale.

"Hadn't we better give him some more water?" whispered Saxe.

"No, herr," said the guide; "no more. That which you gave me brought life back to me: it would do no more good now. Let me rest and smoke awhile—not many minutes. Then I can go on."

The pipe was filled and handed to the poor fellow, who held it with trembling fingers to the opened lanthorn; and as soon as he had lit it and begun to smoke, he said feebly—

"Have you matches, herr!"

"Yes, plenty."

He blew out the light.

"We do not want that now," he said, handing it back to Saxe, and lying back again, to go on smoking rapidly. "The warmth is coming back to my limbs," he continued. "I shall be able to walk better, herrs, and it will be best for me."

"Then you think you can reach the tent to-night?" said Dale.

"Oh yes: we will reach it, herr. It is not so very far now. There will be a fire, and hot coffee, and rugs to cover us from the cold. Oh yes: we are all faint and hungry."

"But look here, Melk," said Saxe, "suppose I go down and fetch up some wood and the coffee?"

"No, herr: it is life to me to get down to camp. There!" he cried, making an effort and rising, "I am getting stronger now. It is hard work to walk, but it is best for me after what I have gone through."

Saxe looked at the dark figure before him with a feeling almost of awe, and his desire was intense to begin questioning; but he restrained himself, waiting till Melchior himself should begin, and following down over the rugged and slippery stones for what seemed to be a weary interminable time. A dozen times over the boy felt as if, regardless of the cold, and the knowledge that it was freezing sharply, he must throw himself down and sleep. But there was the dark figure of the patient guide before him, struggling slowly along, and fighting against the pain and exhaustion that nearly overcame him, and he took heart and stumbled on till he felt as if all the trouble through which he had passed that evening were a dream, of which this was the nightmare-like following, and at last he followed the guide nearly asleep.

How long they had been walking Saxe could not tell, but he roused up suddenly as a peculiar cry rang out somewhere close at hand.

"What's that?" he cried excitedly.

"The mule trumpeting a welcome back," cried Dale. "We are close there now;" and, in effect, five minutes after they were in the sheltered nook, where Melchior stumbled to the tent and dropped down under its shelter.

"Quick, Saxe! The fire and hot coffee for the poor fellow!"

Saxe was wakeful enough now, and in a very short time the coffee kettle was steaming, while the fire threw strange shadows on the rocky wall.

Dale had not been idle. His first proceeding had been to throw a couple of rugs over their companion, who in due time sat up to drink the hot coffee with avidity. He could only eat a few morsels of bread, but he partook of the coffee again, and then sank back to drop into a heavy sleep, and Saxe and Dale sat watching him for some time, forgetting their own mental and bodily weariness in their anxiety respecting the poor fellow's state. But after bending over him several times, and always with the same satisfactory discovery that the sufferer was sleeping easily and well, both Dale and Saxe yielded to their own desire to lie down, carrying on a conversation one minute and the next to be sleeping as heavily as the guide.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

MELCHIOR'S ADVENTURE.

Saxe woke the next morning with a start, and, as full recollection came, he looked round at where Melchior lay; but he was not there. Dale was, however, sleeping soundly; and creeping silently out, so as not to awaken him, Saxe found, to his surprise, that the guide was seated by the fire, feeding it carefully and sparingly with sticks, so as to get all the flame to bear upon the coffee kettle; and, to Saxe's great delight, he seemed to be much as usual.

"Why, Melk," he said, "I was afraid you would be very bad."

"I? Oh no, herr. I was very bad last night, and it was hard work to get back here; but the sleep did me good. You see, we mountain people get used to being knocked about, and I am not much hurt."

"But—"

"Yes, I'll tell you presently, when the master is awake: it is not pleasant to talk about twice. Here he is."

"Why, Melchior, man, you surprise me!" cried Dale, shaking hands warmly. "Here have I been dreaming all night about a long journey to fetch a chaise a porteurs to carry you down, and here you are just as usual."

"Yes, herr; and the coffee will be ready by the time you have had your bath."

"But I want to know—"

"Yes, herr, I'll tell you soon;" and a very, very short time after, as they sat round their meal, Melchior went on sipping his coffee and eating his bacon, as if he had never been in peril in his life; while the others, in spite of the hunger produced by the keen mountain air, could hardly partake of a morsel from the excitement they felt as the guide told of his mishap.

"I always feel, herrs, when I have had to do with an accident, that I have been in fault, and that I have to examine myself as to what I had left undone; but here I cannot see that I neglected anything. The crevasse was not wide. I had seen you both leap in safety, and I followed. It was one of the misfortunes that happen to people, whether they are mountaineers or quiet dwellers in the valley."