“Glad to help thee, Melchior, my brave man,” said old Andregg, in his rough patois; “and I shall be glad to see thee give up this wild mountain life and become a quiet peasant like myself.”
“Well,” cried Dale, “what is to be done? Can you walk back to Andregg’s?”
This after the boy had briefly given him an account of his adventures.
“Yes, I think so,” said Saxe. “I seem to be rested now.”
“No!” cried Melchior emphatically. “The young herr cannot walk another step to-night. We must stay here.”
“You are right,” said Dale. “We have brought up food and blankets. Now you talk like this, I begin to feel how exhausted I am.”
“Then we will make camp here, herr,” said Melchior. And the fire being replenished by Pierre, the little party were soon seated around, partaking of the simple fare provided; and Saxe, in his utter freedom from care, ate with an appetite which astounded himself, as he thought of the despair and misery of a short time before.
Then as they talked, Melchior smiled as he listened to the boy’s remarks; for they were confused, and he was quite in ignorance of how far he was from the site of the snow slip. To him the perils of that day had occurred close by, and he did not realise the fact that the guide had carried him for hours upon his back.
“It does not matter,” Melchior said to himself. “Why should I tell him? Some day he may find out. If I tell him now, he will think I am seeking for a reward.”
The meal, though, was not altogether pleasant to Saxe, who found that every time he raised his eyes Pierre was staring at him in the peculiar apathetic way which had irritated him so before. No matter how he changed his position, no matter what he did, the feeling was strong upon him that old Andregg’s servant was watching him; and the stronger this idea grew upon him the more he felt compelled to turn and look back, just as if the eyes of the sour-looking fellow had some peculiar fascination which he could not resist.