“I cannot say, herr,” cried Melchior. “Look, here: the loop is big enough for it to come off easily if some one took hold of it with both hands and drew it up quite two feet, but it could not slip off by itself.”
“But it did.”
Melchior shook his head.
“Oh, man, man, how can you be so absurd!” cried Dale impatiently. “You don’t mean to say you believe any mischievous imp could have thrown it off?”
“What am I to believe, when the rope falls on us like that? There is no one here in this desolate, awful place—not even a wild beast.”
“Stop!” cried Saxe: “are you sure? Would a bear do that?”
“Surely not, herr.”
“I’ll believe in the bear before I believe in the gnome or kobold!” cried Dale. “Oh, Melchior! now I have so far had so much respect for you as a frank, manly Switzer, don’t spoil it by trying to cloak an error with a paltry excuse. You did not properly secure the rope; it came off; and it was an accident. You know it was an accident, so let it rest.”
“I have tried hard to win the herr’s confidence, and to deserve it,” said the man coldly. “I secured that rope as I believe any guide upon the mountains would have fastened it. The rope gave way not by breaking or coming untied, and I cannot tell how. I told the herr the beliefs of my people, and that I had ceased to think that they were true; but we are seeking to penetrate the mysteries of the mines, and this accident has befallen us. I can say no more.”
“Better not to say more,” said Dale coldly. “Will you lead on?”