“So it is that three or four who understand mountaineering, and work together and trust each other, go up and down places that would be impassable to the unskilful. Hah! we are getting to the top of this slope. Tut, tut! cutting again. Look out!”
The last two words were roared out; and chip, chip, there came close upon one another the sound of two ice-picks being driven into the snow, the guide’s like an echo of Dale’s, for his axe was raised to cut a fresh step, but he changed the direction like lightning, drove it in high up the slope, and held on forward, Dale backward.
For, in the most unexpected manner, one of Saxe’s feet had slipped as he stepped short, and down he went to lie helplessly a dozen feet from where he had stood, hanging suspended from the two ends of the rope—fortunately for him tight round the waists of his companions.
“Herr, herr!” shouted the guide reproachfully, as he looked back over his shoulder, “where’s your ice-axe?”
“Here,” said Saxe dolefully, raising it a little, and vainly trying to drive his toes through the hard crust, newly frozen in the night.
“‘Here,’ sir!” cried Melchior: “but it has no business to be ‘here.’ Strike! strike hard! and drive it into the snow.”
Saxe raised it in both hands, and struck.
“No, no!” cried the guide; “take hold right at the end, and drive it in as high up as you can reach. Hah! that’s better. Now hand over hand. It will hold. Pull yourself up as high as you can.”
“That do?” said Saxe, panting, after obeying the orders and contriving to get a couple of feet.
“Yes,” said the guide, tightening the rope in company with Dale. “Now then, again! A better one this time.”