“Who can say, herr! Perhaps for days. In the mountains, when the weather is bad, we can only wait and hope.”
“Had we not better try to get down off this edge?”
“As a last resource, if the mist does not lift, herr. But not yet.”
Dale uttered an impatient ejaculation; but the guide filled and lit his pipe, settling himself down quite in the snow.
“Wind may come later on,” he said, “and then perhaps we can get down. It is a pity, for this is the worst place in the whole descent. But there: the mountains are mountains, and anything is better than an icy wind, that numbs you so that you cannot stir.”
He was scarcely visible, close as he was; but he had hardly finished speaking when Saxe saw his head, at first faintly, then clearly—for the cloud of mist had been still descending, and literally rolled down past them, Saxe himself standing out clear, then Dale, and the rocks below them one by one as far as the curve permitted them to see.
It was bright sunshine now once more, and as the rays from the west shot by, it was between two strata of clouds, glorifying that which was below and lighting up that above.
“Quick, herr!” said Melchior, in an authoritative tone. “We have this bad piece to finish, if we can, before another cloud rolls down.”
The descent was continued, seeming to Saxe almost interminable. Then they were hurrying along over the snow, after passing the morning’s resting-place, and on and on till the shelf was reached with the precipice running down so steeply, just as mist came rolling down from above and also up from the depths below, meeting just where the party stood roping themselves together.
But, to the surprise of Saxe, the guide took no heed—he merely went on fastening the rope till he had done.