The boy struck the pick in again as hard as he could, and was more successful. The rope was tightened to support him after he had climbed higher; and after three or four minutes he stood once more in his old place panting.
“Wait till he gets his breath, Melchior,” said Dale. “There, boy, it has been a splendid lesson for you, in a place where the worst that could have happened to you was a sharp glissade and some skin off your hands and face. That ice-axe ought to have been driven like lightning into the snow, or the pick held towards it downward. It would have ploughed in and anchored you.”
“I’ll try better next time,” said Saxe. “I’m sorry I’m so stupid.”
“The young herr did well,” cried Melchior warmly. “Why, I have known men hang from the rope helpless and afraid to stir at such a time. Ready? Vorwarts!”
He started again, cutting a step here and there, but very few now; and a quarter of an hour later a long path took them to where the smooth slope gave place to piled-up masses of rock, which looked as if they had been hurled down from above.
Then came a couple of hours’ toilsome climb over broken stones, and up masses that were mastered by sheer scrambling. Now and then an easy rock slope presented itself, or a gully between two buttresses of the mountain, as they won their way higher and higher. Only once was there a really dangerous place—a mere ledge, such as they had passed along on the previous day, but instead of a raging torrent beneath them there was a wall of nearly perpendicular rock running down for about a thousand feet to a great bed of snow.
But the distance was short, and Saxe stepped out bravely, perfectly aware, though, that his companions were keeping the rope pretty tight and watching his every step.
“Well done!” cried Melchior.
“Bravo, Saxe!” said Dale, as soon as they were safely across: “I see your head is screwed on right. Forward!”
“But he don’t know what a weak screw it is,” thought Saxe. “Why, they must have seen how white I was! I shall never dare to get back that way.”