“Oh yes, herr. Certainly he has no hands, but his feet are as true, or truer, than a man’s. You will see he will get through. And I shall carry the basket; it is light now. You see I can shift it as I like,—he cannot.”
“Well, you know best,” said Dale. “How do you feel for the journey, Saxe?”
“Don’t like it,” said the lad bluntly, “but I’m ready. It isn’t so bad as what we did up the mountain.”
“No: you are getting your head, my boy, fast. Ready, Melchior?”
“Yes, unless the herr likes to sit down and rest for half an hour first.”
“By no means,” cried Dale. “We should be thinking of the ugly bit of work we have to do—eh, Saxe?”
“Yes, let’s go on at once, please. I don’t like waiting.”
“How shall you go—leading the mule or driving it?” asked Dale.
“Neither, herr. I shall tell him to go on, and he will lead us.”
The guide shouldered the basket, which was somewhat lightened by Dale and Saxe each taking out some of their belongings and slinging them on by straps. Then Melchior led the mule down to the ledge at the opening, said a few encouraging words, and waited.