A Great Call on a Boy.
Saxe’s depression was only very temporary. As his breath, short from exertion, began to come more regularly, his thoughts dropped back from the tangle of weak helplessness into their proper common-sense groove.
Going to Dale, he turned him over on to his back, and then went to Melchior, who lay motionless; but he was quite sensible, and spoke.
Saxe drew out the flask, and poured a few drops between Dale’s lips. Then, returning to the guide, he treated him in the same manner before clasping the poor fellow’s hand between both his own, and crying in a choking voice—
“Oh, Melchior! Thank God—thank God!”
“Ja, herr,” said the poor fellow in a whisper, as he reverted to his native tongue: “Gott sei dank!”
Just then Dale began to recover, and uttered a low groan; but consciousness came with one stride, and he sat up, looked sharply round, and said sharply—
“Surely I did not swoon? Ah! I was utterly exhausted. Well, Melchior, lad,” he continued, with a forced laugh, “you are no light weight; but we tested the two ropes well. However did you get down to this place?”
“Don’t ask me now, herr,” said the guide. “I am weak, and want rest. Will you let me grasp your hand?”
“My dear fellow!” cried Dale eagerly, and he seized and held the poor fellow’s hand in both of his. “Now, how are you? Can you get up and walk?”