Saxe had his heel in a groove, and he struggled with all his might, Melchior aiding him so effectually that, as Dale drew the poor fellow’s arm farther, Saxe was able to raise the leg he held to the level; and the next moment the guide lay prone on the ice with the lanthorn still burning, and attached to the waist.
“Both together again!” cried Dale hoarsely; and they dragged him a few yards along the ice perfectly helpless, for he had exhausted himself in that last effort to reach the surface.
“Take—off—that—that light!” said Dale, in a strange tone of voice; and then, before Saxe could run to his assistance, he staggered toward the crevasse and fell heavily.
The boy’s heart was in his mouth. For the moment it had seemed as if Dale were going headlong down, but he lay a good two feet from the edge, a distance which Saxe increased by drawing him over the ice; and then, himself utterly exhausted, he sank upon his knees helpless as a child, the ice glimmering in a peculiarly weird and ghastly way, the dark sky overhead—far from all aid—faint and famished from long fasting—and with two insensible men dumbly appealing to him for his assistance.
It was not at all a matter of wonder that Saxe should say piteously—
“What can I do? Was ever poor fellow so miserable before?”