“Where is Mr Dale?” panted Saxe; but there was no reply, and Saxe read the worst in the barely seen face bent over him in the rough well-like hole that had been cut so energetically.
A few minutes only were allowed to elapse, and then the guide took the ice-axe to which Saxe still clung from the boy’s hand to lay it aside.
“Now,” he said, “close your eyes while I cut a couple of holes.”
The boy obeyed, and tried hard not to wince as the hard chips flew and struck him again and again in the face; while making the implement flash as he struck with it energetically, Melchior cut deeply into the sides of the hole, and just at a suitable distance for the object he had in view.
This of course was to place Saxe’s ice-axe across, with head and butt resting in the two holes, and he had judged so accurately that the head went in with not half an inch to spare after he had thrust in the butt spike at the opposite side.
“Now,” cried the guide, “take well hold of that, while I stoop down and get my hands under your arms and locked across your breast. Then, as I give the word, we must heave together.”
He got himself into position as he spoke, but had to use the spike at the end of his axe handle to form a place for his feet on either side. Then, throwing down the axe, he planted his feet firmly, bent down nearly double, clasped his hands round the boy, and after seeing that he had a good grip of the ashen handle above his head, called upon him to heave.
Then began a slow, patient struggle, with Saxe tugging at the cross-bar formed by his ice-axe, till it bent more and more into a bow, while Melchior brought his powerful muscles to bear in a steady strain, till Saxe gasped forth—
“No, no! Stop!”
“Did I hurt you?” said Melchior.