“Are you comfortable?” he asked; but Saxe did not reply.
“It was quite time, poor lad,” muttered Melchior. “The warmth from my body will keep him alive, and, Heaven helping me, I may get safely down below the snow. If I can do that, I must find a place where I can make a fire. Now, lad, you call yourself a guide: make for the nearest bit of forest, and save this poor boy’s life. But it’s a hard task—a hard task, and you need all your strength and knowledge now.”
It was indeed a hard task, and again and again he nearly fell headlong; but by the exercise of his wonderful activity and strength, he always recovered himself, took a fresh breath, and descended steadily over the frozen snow, which grew more rugged and difficult at every turn.
“But I must do it—must do it,” the man kept on muttering; and he toiled on down till the bottom of the slope was reached, and here the piled-up new ice proved more difficult than ever; and it was not till an hour had passed from his reaching the bottom of the slip, that he thoroughly left behind the last trace of the avalanche.
What had been simple mountaineering work in the bright sunshine, when free and able to pick the way, became terrible now in the mountain, where the path was always rugged, but often such that a moment’s hesitation or a slip might mean death for both. But Melchior’s feet seemed by long habit to have grown accustomed to danger, and to have been educated into joining in the protection of him they bore, so that, in spite of the darkness and danger, Melchior got down lower and lower, and by degrees worked himself into the track he had followed in the morning in guiding his companions up the peak.
Here he was more at home, and able to think out how he could best pass round that ledge and creep by this angle before he reached it. Saxe did not speak, but hung upon his back perfectly inert—a terrible load at such a time; but the guide made no mental complaint,—simply toiled on slowly enough for a couple of hours; then, thinking of a certain nook in the mountain just below the snow-line where there was a good-sized clump of dwarfed and distorted pines, he decided to stop there for the night, sheltered from the icy wind with a good elastic heap of pine boughs for their bed and coverlet, and a roaring fire to add to their warmth.
“The task will be easy enough to-morrow,” he said; and then, thinking sorrowfully of Dale, he kept on with his slow, careful tramp down the mountain side.
It was as if that clump of pines would never be reached, and there were moments when he was ready to think that he must have missed them; but a glance to left or right at the rocks towering up into the sky sufficed to convince him that he was still on the right track, for he knew them by heart, and, giving his load a fresh shift, he toiled on again, hot, exhausted, but full of determination.
Now and then he spoke to Saxe, but there was no reply; and more than once he felt disposed to let his burden glide down on to the rock and have a short rest, but he always shook his head and went on downward, thanking Providence that he was below all the parts which necessitated clinging; and at last, when so utterly wearied out that his pace was a mere crawl, he reached the pines, threaded his way in, and lowered Saxe down. Then, setting rapidly to work, he soon brought together a quantity of dead wood, and started a fire with a few handfuls of pine needles piled on the small boughs to shed its warmth upon the boy’s half-frozen feet.
This done, he cut and broke down bough after bough, making of them a soft, elastic bed near the fire, and dragging Saxe into a better position before cutting other pieces with his axe and laying them together like the ridge of a roof over his companion’s head.