“Not a word, herr,” he whispered. “We might have another fall.”
Saxe looked up and shuddered, for the snow far above them seemed as if it might come down at any moment; and after looking sharply from left to right, he gladly followed Melchior as he went cautiously toward the upper rocks for a couple of dozen yards.
“Here is where we must have been,” he said; “and from this spot we ought to start back if we are to find the herr.”
Saxe nodded, for he could not trust himself to speak. It was all too terrible; and the thought of Dale being imprisoned somewhere near, held fast as he had been, seemed far worse than anything he had himself gone through.
Melchior started back directly, as if from instinct; and, unable to do more, Saxe followed him till he halted.
“It is blind work, herr,” he whispered. “There is no clue to guide one. He was suddenly swept away from us; and who can say whether we may not be going from him all this time, instead of following him up?”
“Oh, Melchior!” cried Saxe piteously.
“Not so loud, herr—not so loud. It sounds cruel to say so—hard to you; but I am obliged to be honest with you, and say that I see no hope of our finding him alive.”
A sob escaped from Saxe’s breast, but his face looked cold and hard.
“You might have said the same about me,” he whispered back; “but I am here.”