Chapter Fourteen.
A Mountain Mist.
“Hah!” ejaculated Dale, as he watched the strange phenomenon; “people will talk superstitious nonsense and believe in ghost stories, portents and other old women’s tales. But don’t you take any notice of them, Saxe. They will not do for Englishmen. Why, you have no faith in such things, Melchior?”
“Not much, herr,” said the guide, smiling: “I have seen the ‘spectre of the Brocken,’ as people call it, twenty times at least. But I do fear mists.”
“Yes; those are real dangers. And you think we shall have them here!”
“Yes, herr. I should like us to descend at once. We can do nothing in a fog.”
“Come along, Saxe: we’ll go down.”
“Can’t—can’t we stop a little longer?” said the lad hesitatingly.
“No. You will have plenty more chances of seeing views like this, or finer. What is it, Melchior?”
“We were forgetting all about the rocks, herr. There are some curious bits here.”