“What’s the matter, Saxe?” said the latter.
“It’s so horribly wet.”
“Well, it’s wet everywhere sometimes. Sit down near the fire and rest. You’ll be all the better for it when the rain is over.”
“But it looks as if it never would be over.”
“But it will be. There: help keep up the fire, and be patient. We can’t always be climbing.”
“I say, look at that,” cried Saxe, laughing; for just then the mule, which had been grazing a short distance away, troubling itself not in the slightest degree about the rain, came slowly towards them, with its shaggy coat looking as if it had been oiled, and the water trickling from it in streams, as if it were a walking reservoir filled a little too full.
It was evident that it considered the rain a little too heavy now, for it thrust its head under cover, and blinked for a few moments at the fire before giving itself a tremendous shake, sending the water flying from its ears, and then drooped them low down, as if holding them out to the fire to dry.
In this position its head was in shelter, but the rain streamed down upon its back and hind quarters, while a perfect deluge, like that from a waterspout, ran down a long gully in the overhanging rock right on to the spine just between the shoulders, and there divided to trickle on either side down the fore legs, and then run down through the pine needles, which formed too thick a bed for any of the water to make a pool.
To the surprise of all, the mule was perfectly satisfied so long as it could keep its head and ears in the warmth and shelter, and never once attempted to creep in nearer; and so another hour passed, only broken by the low murmur of Dale’s voice as he talked to the guide, and the plash and rush of water. For the dripping was drowned now by the enormous amount which fell, and this went on increasing till there was quite a heavy roar, as of many falls.
“Is that anything?” said Saxe at last, as a low booming noise fell upon their ears—a sound which gradually increased.