“But surely,” said Dale, “they would get no pasture higher up?”
“Only in patches, herr. They have been so persecuted by the hunters that they live constantly amongst the ice and snow and in the most solitary spots. But I cannot understand about that stone falling.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Saxe. “It did not hit either of us, and you said they often fell in the mountains.”
“Yes herr, but not like that.”
They went on for the next two hours in silence, while the pass they were following grew more and more wild, but it opened out a little during the next hour, but only to contract again. And here, in a secluded place beneath one of the vast walls of rock which shut them in, and beside a tiny rivulet which came bubbling and foaming down, the guide suggested a short halt and refreshment.
Dale agreed, and Saxe doubly agreed, helping to lift the pannier from the mule’s back, when the patient animal indulged in a roll, drank a little water, and then began to browse on such tender shoots and herbage as it could find.
The bread and cheese were produced, and all were seated enjoying their alfresco meal, when once more from up to their right a stone as big as a man’s head came crashing down, to fall not far away. So near was it that it startled the mule, who trotted a little on out of danger before beginning again to graze.
Melchior had sprung to his feet at once, leaped away for a short distance, and stood shading his eyes again, and scanning the rocky face of the precipice on their right—that is, just above their heads.
“Well, what do you make of it?” cried Dale,—“a landslip?”
“No, herr; there is no landslip.”