“The old mule?” cried Saxe. “Oh, I wish I was close by him with a stick.”
“I suppose he feels the cold. No, stop: it can’t be that,” added the guide, as if suddenly struck by an idea. “There must be a reason for his crying out.”
He walked away hurriedly into the darkness, and they followed, to hear him talking directly after to the mule, which responded with a low whinnying sound.
“Perhaps the poor brute has slipped into a hole or a crack in the rock,” suggested Dale; but as they drew nigh they could see the mule standing out dimly in the darkness, and the guide close by his neck.
“Have we overdriven him?” said Saxe. “Is he ill?”
“You couldn’t overdrive Gros, herr,” said Melchior quietly.
“Why not?”
“You heard what old Andregg said to us, Gros would not be overdriven, herr; he would lie down when he had done as much work as he felt was enough.”
“What’s the matter, then? Is he ill?”
“No, herr; his coat is smooth and dry.”