Dale groaned, and was wondering whether he could achieve his aim by drawing up the rope, re-knotting it, and making the noose smaller, but just then Melchior spoke.
“If I could free my ice-axe, I could hook on to it, herr. I can see the loop quite plainly, but I dare not stir—I can only move one hand.”
“Wait!” cried Dale. “Ice-axe!”
He drew back, hauled up some of the rope, knelt upon it to keep it fast, and picked up his ice-axe, while Saxe watched him with dilated eyes, as he made a knot and passed the axe handle through to where the steel head stopped it like a cross. Then, cutting off more string, he bound the end of the rope to the handle of his axe, doubly and triply, so that slipping was impossible.
This took up nearly a foot for the knot; but the handle was nearly four feet long, so that by this scheme he gained another yard as an addition to the rope.
“I am at the end of my wits now, Saxe,” he said softly; and then, with grim irony, “There is no need to wet my hands, boy.”
“Now, Melchior!” he shouted; “try again!”
He was on his chest as he spoke, with his arms outstretched, holding tightly by the axe handle.
“Can you reach it?”
Saxe panted, and felt the insides of his hands grow wet and cold as he held on to his companion and listened for the answer that was terribly long in coming. The sensation was almost suffocating; he held his breath, and every nerve and muscle was on the strain for the words which seemed as if they would never reach his ears.