“He’s horribly frightened, herr; but he would sooner die than show it.”
“Exactly: you are right. Will he hold out?”
“That he will, if he is a long time doing it.”
“Will you stand by me, Melchior?”
“Of course, herr. I am your servant, and I am more: we are all brothers in the mountains, ready to stand by each other to the end.”
“Then, if he has the pluck that every English boy should have—the pluck that English boys always have had—he shall go right to the top, even if we have to sleep somewhere half-way down.”
“If we can get him to the top, herr,” said Melchior, laughing in his quiet, grave way, “never mind about the coming down. Bless him! I’ll carry him down what you English call pig-a-back, if he’s worn out.”
“Then we’ll take him. Is it a very stiff climb higher—dangerous?”
The guide shrugged his shoulders.
“The herr is a mountaineer, and sees as much as I do. I have never been up here, but the mountains are much alike on the whole. I think we can do it.”