“Oh no: light it, Melk, and let us start again,” said Saxe in a whisper.
The guide rapidly filled and lit his pipe, for his long experience told him that Saxe must not sit long in the condition he was; and rising and resuming his hold of his trusty axe, he said sharply—
“Now, herr, forward!”
Saxe looked up at him in a dazed way, but did not stir.
“I was afraid so,” muttered the guide, as he picked up the boy’s ice-axe and stuck it through his belt. Then drawing the rope from beneath him, he threw it over his shoulder and went down on his knees just in front of his companion.
“Now, herr,” he said imperatively: “put your arms round my neck.”
“What for? what are you going to do?” faltered Saxe helplessly.
“Only give you a lift, my boy, till you are a bit rested.”
“But—” began Saxe, protesting feebly.
“Your hands! Quick!” cried Melchior; and seizing one he drew Saxe forward, the other hand followed, and the guide staggered to his feet, shifted and shuffled his load into an easier position, and then getting his hands beneath his legs, as Saxe involuntarily clasped his arms about the man’s stout neck, he began his perilous descent—perilous, for now he had to trust entirely to his feet and balance himself cautiously as he started off in the gathering darkness downward toward the nearest vale.