“Nearly below you, herr,” came up feebly. “So cold and faint.”
“Hold on,” shouted Dale. “Now, Saxe, the ball of string and the lanthorn. Light it quickly.”
The boy’s hands trembled so that he could hardly obey, and two matches were spoiled by the touch of his wet fingers before the lamp burned bright and clear.
Meanwhile Dale had been securing the lanthorn to the end of the string.
“Melchior,” he shouted, “I’m sending you down the light.”
His words were short and sharp, and now he lay down and began to lower the lanthorn rapidly, its clear flame reflected from the ice wall, and revealing bit by bit the horrors of the terrible gulf, with its perpendicular walls.
Down, down, down went the lamp, till Saxe’s heart sank with it, and with a look of despair he watched it and that which it revealed,—for he could see that it would be impossible for anyone to climb the ice wall, and the lamp had gone down so far that it was beyond the reach of their rope.
“Terribly deep down,” said Dale, half aloud, as he watched the descending lanthorn.
“Ah! I see him!” cried Saxe. “He is just below the light, on that ledge. Yes, and the ice slopes down from there.”
“Can you get it?” cried Dale loudly. “Not yet, herr,” came up feebly. “Lower.”