“What, up there?—now?” cried Saxe wonderingly.
“Yes, up there now. I have often known men ascend mountains on what seemed to be glorious days, and there was only a fine filmy veil to be seen floating round the higher parts—just enough to hide them perhaps for an hour together; but when they came down to the little hotel in the valley, they had a long tale to tell us of having been frostbitten while clinging to the snow slopes and ice-covered rocks, not daring to venture up or down on account of the tremendous, tempestuous wind blowing.”
“I say, look here!” cried Saxe, pointing to another peak from which lovely, silvery streamers of cloud spread out: “you don’t mean to say that there’s bad weather up there now?”
“Indeed, but I do; and if you asked Melchior he would—”
“Hi! Melk!” cried Saxe, as the man came slowly up after them, “what sort of weather is it up there now?”
“Terrible, herr,” replied the man, shading his eyes. “The snow must be falling heavily, and a wind raging fierce enough to tear any man from his hold.”
“Well!” ejaculated Saxe, “I am puzzled. Why, the weather looks glorious—like summer!”
“But you forget that if you only go high enough up it is eternal winter. The tops of those mountains are in the midst of never-failing snow, which is gradually compressed into ice and—”
“Would the herr like to go to the foot of the glacier and examine the ice grotto?”
“We did do that in the other valley.”