They started again, taking to the rocky face where the steepness kept the snow from hanging. The sun was now shining full upon them, adding its heat to that produced by the exertion. The advance was slow and tentative for some time, resulting in several failures; and so painfully steep had the place become that Dale twice, to Saxe’s great relief, suggested that it would be better to give it up, and the guide seemed to be unwillingly about to agree, when all at once a narrow rift opened out before them.
“We’re at the top, herr,” he cried joyfully; and, stepping out, he stopped in the furrow carved in the mountain’s side, and prepared to climb.
“Can you get up there?” said Saxe, wiping his streaming face and gazing skyward.
“Yes, herr, and you can too. Once up there, the rest will be easy.”
Dale looked doubtful, but he said nothing—only stood watching while Melchior crept right into the narrowest part and began to ascend, taking advantage of every crack and prominence, rising higher and higher without a moment’s hesitation, though so narrow was their standing-place, that unless Dale and Saxe could stop him in case of a slip, the unfortunate man would glance off and shoot into space.
Melchior was still climbing on when this idea struck Dale, who turned sharply to his young companion.
“Why are you staring down there!” he said, as he noticed that Saxe had turned from watching the guide and was looking down the tremendous series of precipices stretching step-like from where he stood to the valley southward.
“I was thinking how deep it is.”
“Think of how far it is to the top, and let the rest take care of itself. Here,” he whispered, “stand close in with me. If he slips we must stop him somehow. Well,” he cried aloud, “can you manage it?”
“Oh yes, herr; and so will you,” cried Melchior. “It is not so very hard. This rift seems as if made on purpose.”