Melchior climbed up, fastened the rope to the spike, and then crept inside the grotto with the lanthorn attached to his waist.
“Looks just like a bear going into his den,” said Saxe, laughing, as the hind quarters of the guide disappeared.
“Yes. Up with you, and play bear too, or monkey,” said Dale, laughing; and with the help of the rope the boy soon reached the opening and crawled in.
Dale followed, and blocked out the light just as Melchior had crept farther in, and was busy opening the lanthorn and striking a match.
“One moment, Melchior,” said Dale: “here’s a piece of blue light,—let’s burn that.”
But just as he spoke the match flashed into light, and Melchior dropped it; they heard him scratching at his box, and directly after he struck about half a dozen together, and separated them, so that they burned brightly, holding them high up above his head before taking one to light the wick of the lanthorn.
At the first flash out of the matches Saxe sprang back in horror, and Dale uttered a groan of disappointment. Then there was a dead silence, during which the matches blazed down close to the guide’s fingers, and were allowed to fall, while the lanthorn burned more brightly, showing the guide’s wrinkled countenance, full of disappointment and despair.
“It’s horrible!” cried Saxe wildly. “Oh, if I only knew!”
“Yes, boy: if you only knew,” said Dale.
“We must find them.”