“Then we must find some other ledge upon which we can stand,” cried Dale, rising to his feet.
Melchior shook his head. “There is none,” he said.
“You have not looked.”
“Herr, I searched the wall with my eyes as we went and returned. A guide studies the places he passes, and learns them by heart, so that they may be useful at some time, should he want them. Look above you: the wall hangs over all the way. Nothing but a fly could stand anywhere along here.”
It was undeniable, as Dale could see; and he leaned back against the rock and folded his arms, gazing down sternly at the rising water, till the guide spoke again, as he finished his pipe, knocked out the ashes, and replaced it in his breast.
“It would be wise to take off the rope,” he said quietly.
“Why?” cried Saxe excitedly.
“Because, if we are swept down with the stream, it would be in our way—perhaps catch in some rock below, or tangle round our legs and arms.”
“You feel, then,” cried Dale, “that there is no hope of the waters going down, and that we shall soon have a chance to get through?”
Saxe, whose brain had been full of horrors suggested by the guide’s last words—words which had called up visions of unfortunate people vainly struggling to reach the surface beyond the reach of the strangling water, but held down by that terrible rope—now sat listening eagerly for Melchior’s next utterance, as the man began deliberately unfastening the rope.