There was no answer to his question, and he looked at the guide, who stood leaning upon his ice-axe.
“Well!” cried Saxe; and Melchior started and faced him. “I was trying to think, herr,” he said. “We were all separated at the first slip of the snow. I held on to you for a few moments, but you were snatched from me, and I saw no more, till I found myself far below yonder. I had been buried twice; but the snow as it rolled over thrust me forth again, and I was able to struggle out.”
“Then you have no idea where Mr Dale can be?” Melchior shook his head sadly.
“It was a mistake, sir,” he said. “I ought to have known better than to cross such a treacherous slope. I did know better, but I suffered myself to be overruled, and now in the face of all this terrible misfortune I feel helpless. What can one man do when great Nature fights against him as she does here?”
Saxe looked wildly round again, to see that before long it would be dusk, for the snow was fast turning grey, and the peaks alone were ruddy with the sinking sun.
The boy shivered from cold and nervous shock, as he gazed at the weird-looking rocks and the folded snow, and then, grasping at Melchior’s arm, he said pitifully: “Don’t tell me you think he is buried.”
“No, herr,” cried the guide, rousing himself: “I will not say that, for there is still hope. He may have been carried right away below us by the loose upper snow, which went on, while the lower part soon stopped by getting pressed together into ice. But it is impossible to say. We must do something; it will soon be dark, and you have no strength left now.”
“I have!” cried the boy excitedly; “and I can help you now. Shout: perhaps he may be within hearing.”
The guide shrugged his shoulders and shook his head; but he gave forth a long, loud mountaineer’s call, which was repeated plainly from far away above him.
Then again, and again, and again; but there were only the echoes to respond.