“Yes, herr: more life in me now.”
“Have you your rope?”
Saxe stopped to listen for the answer, and, though it was only a matter of moments, he suffered agonies of expectation before he heard the answer.
“Yes.”
“Take off the lanthorn and stand it by you, or fasten it to your belt.”
“Yes, herr.”
“Make fast your rope to the string, and let me draw it up.”
“It will not reach, herr.”
“I know. I have mine.”
There was a pause only broken by the chipping of the ice-axe, and then the voice came up again in a hollow whisper—