“You must go on, or let me pass you, Saxe,” shouted Dale: “I want to speak to the guide.”
“It gets deeper here,” cried Saxe: “it’s over my ankles, and the water feels like ice.”
“Never mind,—go on; keep as close to the wall as you can. Shall I get by you?”
“No,” said Saxe stoutly; “I’ll try.”
He waded along the shelf, with the water getting deeper still; and now he could feel the curious sensation of the rushing stream bearing against his legs, which were immersed half-way to his knees; and at every step he cautiously sounded, to make sure where he should plant his feet.
Before he had gone many paces, Melchior had returned to meet him; and as Dale closed up the guide shouted:
“I can’t get him along, sir, and I dare not make him restive by a blow.”
“No, no—of course not. But the water?”
“It is deeper farther on, herr—I think about a foot—and he will not move.”
“It is impossible to back him, of course?”