“That’s it, herr,” cried Melchior; “and look there!”
He bent down, and pointed.
“Ah! look, Saxe!” cried Dale: “some one’s footmark in the pine ash!”
“’Tisn’t mine,” said Saxe: “it’s too big.”
“Nor mine,” said Dale. “An English boot does not leave a print like that. It’s yours, Melchior. A false alarm.”
“No, herr—no false alarm,” said the guide; and he raised one foot so as to expose the sole. “Look at the open way in which I nail my boots—with big nails, so that they shall not slip on the rock or ice. That footprint is not mine.”
“No: you are right. Then whose could it be?”
Melchior shook his head.
“Some one must have been prowling round the tent in the night.”
“It must have been one of Melk’s spirits—the one who threw stones at us yesterday. I say, Melk, they wear very big boots.”