“Come, herr,” Melchior shouted, from his invisible resting-place. “Are you at that bit of sticking-out rock? Come along: it’s very easy.”
Saxe raised his arms, which had felt nerveless the moment before, took a fresh hold, and began to climb desperately. The first movements were horrible, and he felt the creeping sensation of horror once more, and stopped, clinging hard, thinking that he could do no more; but the rope was against his face, and as it vibrated he knew that even if he slipped it would hold him, and the cold, dank sensation passed away again as he got a good foothold and was helped by the strain on the rope; and just while he was saying to himself, “I shall never do it—I shall never do it!” a great hand seized the rope round his chest, and he was drawn right on to a rocky platform, where Melchior was seated with his legs widely apart, and his heels against two projecting corners.
“Well done, herr!” cried the guide, laughing, as he proceeded to untie the rope: “you and I will do some of the big peaks yet.”
Saxe said nothing, but seated himself twenty feet farther up the rock, with his heels planted in the same way as the guide’s, and letting the rope pass through his hands as it was gathered into rings.
“Ready, herr!” shouted Melchior.
“Yes,” came from below; and the rope was thrown over the edge.
“Make it fast round your waist, herr,” cried Melchior; and then, turning to Saxe, he said, with a smile meant to inspire confidence, “We can pull him up if he likes.”
“Now!” came from below.
“Ready,” shouted the guide; and then to Saxe—“Pull as I pull, herr, steady and strong, always keeping a tight grip, in case of a slip. It gives him confidence.”