The rope was rapidly attached, and, as Dale started to descend, it seemed to Saxe that he was disappearing over the edge of a precipice; and as this was repeated again and again while they reversed the way by which they had ascended, the guide sitting fast and holding on till they were down, the place seemed far more terrible, and the snow slopes on either side almost perpendicular.
They made good way, however, Melchior keeping on inciting them to fresh exertion.
“Go on, gentlemen—go on!” he said. “I have you safe. The rope is good. Go on, herrs—go on!”
But the descent over those rugged knife-edged ridges was so perilous, that Dale went slowly and cautiously; and when he reached each stopping-place he held on till Saxe had passed down to him. Once the boy seemed to totter as he was passing from one of the rocks to the other, over a patch of snow between them; but the firm strain upon the rope gave him support, and he reached the rock and began to lower himself.
In spite of their hastening, that which Melchior had apprehended happened: a cloud of mist suddenly started in advance of the rest, which had formed upward, and now completely veiled the summit. This mist-cloud rolled rapidly down when the party were about two-thirds of the way down the ridge, and just as Saxe was being lowered down.
An ejaculation from the guide made the lad look up; and he saw the stern, earnest face for a moment, then the fog rolled over it, and the guide’s voice sounded strange as he shouted:
“Go on, young herr; and directly you reach Mr Dale sit fast. Don’t move.”
Five minutes later Melchior was with them, and they crouched together, partly on rock, partly in snow.
“We must not move, herr,” said Melchior. “It is unfortunate, but I was rather afraid. If it had held off for another quarter of an hour, I should not have cared.”
“Will it last long?” asked Saxe.