“I? No: of course not! You could not have done so.”
The guide laughed softly, and drew the tough pine boughs more over Saxe.
“Are you warm?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so; but we must get up and go in search of Mr Dale.”
“We cannot go to-night, without lanthorns and help. Do you think I should stay here without trying, if it were possible to save Mr Dale’s life?”
“What’s that!” moaned Saxe just at that moment; for a shrill cry came from a distance, followed by a jodel, which Melchior answered as he stood aside from the fire so as to try and pierce the darkness of the slope below them.
The jodel was given again, and answered.
“There is help coming, young herr,” cried the guide excitedly, as he shaded his eyes from the fire: “men with lanthorns. Who can they be?” he muttered to himself. “Smugglers? No, for the jodel was Pierre’s, and the cry was like that of Andregg. Why are they coming here?”
He was not long kept in doubt, for the party, whoever they were, came on rapidly now, at the sight of the fire, the dim lanthorns dancing and swinging about in the darkness below, and coming nearer and nearer, as their bearers ascended the mountain side towards the patch of wood, till all at once one of them came forward at a run into the light shed by the fire.
“Melchior!” he panted: “you here! Where is young Saxe?”