“He means me only,” thought Saxe, “and I won’t let him.”
“Now, gentlemen!” the guide went on, as he stood shading his eyes, “that snow’s pretty firm, I think, and will not slip. We ought to master the arête in an hour.”
“An hour to do that little bit!” thought Saxe, as he looked up; but he did not utter his thoughts; he was really beginning to understand that dots meant big rocks, and snow patches that seemed the size of the hand great beds.
“Vorwarts!” cried Melchior; and he began to climb with the activity of a monkey, getting up to the extent of the rope, and then seating himself and drawing it in as Saxe followed him and fully grasped now that it was like getting up the sloping ridge of some mighty roof all in vast ruins. For the rocks rose out of the snow which fell away steeply on either side—how far the curve prevented him from seeing; but once, when he took hold of a great projecting piece of rock about double the size of his head, it came away and went rolling down the slope to his right, carrying more and more snow with it, till all disappeared with a curious hissing rush, which was followed many seconds later by a low reverberating roar.
“I ought to have tried that stone,” said the guide quietly. “That’s right, herr: steady. Shall I pull?”
“No, no!” pleaded Saxe.
“Good! That block—now this. Well done! Get behind me and sit down and rest.”
Saxe felt disposed to refuse; but he took his place, and in a minute or two Dale was up by them, and the guide went on again, repeating the slow cautious process.
It was necessary, for the way up grew steeper and some of the rocks looser and far larger than that which Saxe had started, gave way at the first touch of the guide, and had to be turned off sideways to prevent mischief to those who followed.
As they rose higher the slope down on either hand seemed more appalling; and once, as Saxe climbed to him, Melchior said, with a smile—