“What is it?” cried Dale excitedly.
“The snow, herr—the snow!” cried Melchior. “See!”
He spoke calmly and solemnly, but made no effort to dash on; though, as he realised their danger, Dale’s first impulse was to call upon Saxe to try and reach the rocks.
Melchior knew that it would be impossible, and he stood firm, ready to meet his fate.
For far above them a dark jagged line had opened across the snowfield, with the dull report they had heard. That crack had begun to widen rapidly, with a curious hissing noise, and the next moment Saxe saw that the vast snow slope was in motion, and that they were being carried by it downward toward the valley, a couple of thousand yards below.
Everything happened so quickly that the boy had no time to feel alarm. One quick thought darted through his brain,—that they would be carried so far down that they would have to make a long détour. Then his arm was seized by Melchior, and a sound above him made him gaze upward, to see that the snow was forming in long folds, like waves, upon the slope, and threatening to curve over and bury them. Then their speed increased, the rolling sound rose into a terrific roar, and the boy fully grasped the fact that they had started an avalanche, and were being hurried downward to destruction.
“Can’t we—we—”
Saxe said no more, for at that moment a rush of snow swept by them as if borne upon the wings of some terrible tempest, and in the midst of the suffocating sensation he felt himself sinking lower and lower. The snow was at his waist; then, as he was borne swiftly down, at his breast; and the next instant at his lips; and all the while he was gliding downward at railway speed.
“Melk! Help!” he cried hoarsely, as he was twisted violently round and borne down backward; and then the snow seemed to leap right over him, and all was dark.