Saxe felt a strong inclination to go back and peer down into the black depths again, but he had to resist it, and, carrying the lanthorn, he followed close behind Melchior, with one hand raised, ready to snatch at him if he seemed disposed to fall.
It was very dark now, and the light from the lanthorn was reflected in a faint, sickly way from the ghostly-looking masses of ice as they threaded their way onward, the guide whispering to them to be silent and careful, as many of the huge pinnacles were unsteady.
But, in spite of their cautious procedure, one mass tottered over and came down with an awful crash just as Dale had passed; and the falling of this meant the destruction of a couple of others, the noise of their splintering raising an echo in the narrow gorge which ran upward reverberating like thunder.
Melchior did not speak, but hurried on, and, turning the end of the crevasse, led them diagonally off the ice and down into the narrow stony way between it and the walls of the valley.
Here he let himself sink down on a smooth slope of rock, to remain seated for a moment or two and then lie right down upon his back.
“It is nothing, herr,” he said quietly,—“only weariness. May I beg for something?”
“Yes: what can we do!” cried Dale.
“Fill your pipe for me, herr, and light it. My tobacco is so wet it will not burn.”
“Of course,” cried Dale.
“Hadn’t we better give him some more water?” whispered Saxe.