“Yes, yes: what?” cried the others in a breath.
“The poor mule—the poor mule!”
“What?”
“I saw it roll over. Its leg came out, and then I saw its back for a moment, and it was gone.”
“Poor old Gros!” cried Melchior; and he hurried along the shelf as far as he could go, and knelt down.
He soon returned, looking very sad.
“I just caught a glint of its back in the water, and it was gone. Poor beast!” he said; “he did not seem to be struggling. I’m afraid he is gone.”
This was a bad omen, and Dale looked very hard, and then Melchior once more went down on his knees and peered into the stream, to measure it with his eyes.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, as he got up and began to fumble for his pipe and matches.
“Risen much?” Dale’s eyes said, as he turned them upon the guide.