“Yes, herr—I hope so,” replied Melchior; “but I cannot.”
Half an hour after he stepped out, and went silently by Dale, touching his hat as he passed, and went on so quickly that he was soon out of sight; and then Dale slackened his pace a little, to allow Saxe to come up.
“Tired and hungry, my lad?” he said.
“Yes, both,” replied the boy. “I hope Melchior has brought a chicken to broil for tea.”
Dale laughed.
“Well, now you speak of it, I hope so too, for I suppose I am hungry; but all that business put eating out of my head. By the way, Saxe, I am sorry I spoke so sharply to Melchior. The man is very sensitive, and of course he cannot help having a lingering belief in the old superstitions of the people among whom he was raised.”
“I suppose not,” said Saxe thoughtfully.
“Why, in one of their old books the author has given copperplate engravings of the terrible fiery and other dragons which dwelt in the mountains. Superstitions die hard. But there—I dare say he will forget it by to-morrow.”
“But don’t you think that some one must have lifted off the rope?”
“No: I believe it was his careless tying.”