“Yes—what is it?” said Dale quickly.
“A minute’s rest for the young herr, sir. As soon as he has his breath well go on. The snow is loose, but better than I expected. I was a little afraid at starting.”
“Afraid? Of what?”
“The snow is often a little treacherous in a place like this, herr; and as it is so loose we shall have to be careful about glissading when we get beyond the rocks yonder.”
“But surely there is nothing treacherous here?” said Dale: “a little soft, perhaps, but that is all. Go on: we ought to be up there in another quarter of an hour.”
“Yes, herr,” said the guide, after another glance up at the wreaths and folds of pure white snow which draped the mountain high above their heads; and then, after giving Saxe an encouraging smile, he went on again, with his boots crunching down the snow, forming a series of impressions which were deepened by those who followed.
Half the distance—two-thirds—was passed; and as he struggled on, feeling hot now and as if the exertion were telling upon him, Saxe glanced back, wondering at the length of the track they had made, and how the snowfield had seemed to extend as they trudged along.
“Yes,” said Dale, from close behind him, as he divined the boy’s thoughts, “it is a long way; but we shall soon reach the rocks now, and then the worst part of our journey is done.”
Crack!
A long dull report, as of something breaking; and Melchior stopped short and uttered a groan.