“Oh, you ignorant donkey!” he muttered: “it was as good a jodel as old Melk’s. I said you were an idiot, and this proves it: never heard an Englishman jodel before?”
Five minutes after he was enjoying the steaming hot coffee and delicious milk, butter, eggs and bread, discussing—often with his mouth too fall—the plans of the coming day’s work.
Chapter Eighteen.
Saxe has Suspicions.
“Do we go the same way?” said Saxe, as they started up the track out of the valley, Gros far more heavily laden this time—having, beside food enough for some days, a handy tent just large enough to shelter three; waterproof sheet, rugs, ice-axes, and a coil of new English rope which made the guide’s eyes glisten.
“No, herr,” Melchior answered—“only for a short distance. Then we shall strike up to the east and go over the Carvas Pass into the Urs Thal.”
“Urseren?” said Dale quickly.
“Oh no, herr! not a bleak green hollow like that, but a wild ravine in the heart of the mountain. It lies next but one to the valley beyond the peak you climbed.”