From out of the Depths.
They began to descend the great ice-torrent in solemn silence; but before they had gone fifty yards Saxe stopped short, darted a wild, apologetic look at Dale, and began to run back toward the crevasse.
Dale followed him more slowly, and reached the boy as he was lying down with his head and shoulders over the brink.
“Mel—chi—or!” shouted Saxe, with his hands on either side of his mouth—a long-drawn, piteous cry, in which he formed the name into three syllables; and as Dale leaned over and listened to the strange hollow reverberations down below, it was as if a voice repeated the last syllable in a faint, appealing whisper.
“There!” cried Saxe excitedly; “I couldn’t go without trying once more. I knew it: he isn’t dead! You heard that?”
“Yes,” said Dale, with a pitying look at his companion, “I heard that.”
“Well? He’s not dead. I’ll stay here, and keep shouting to him now and then, while you go for help. Run at once. Stop a minute. Give me your flask; I’ll lower it down to him with the string.”
“Saxe, my lad,” said Dale sadly, “you are buoying yourself up with false hopes.”
“No, no! I heard him answer distinctly,” cried Saxe wildly. “Hark! I’ll call again. Melchior, Mel—chi—or!”
He gave forth the last cry with all his might, emphasising the “chi—or!” and, probably from his being on the opposite side of the crevasse, and more favourably placed for the acoustic phenomenon, the syllables were repeated, after a pause, faintly but distinctly—an effect that had not been produced by any of the lad’s cries on the other side of the crevasse.