In the Ice-Cave.
The sun was shining brightly on as lovely a morning as had fallen to their lot since they had been in the Alps; and upon Saxe springing up, his first act was to go up to the spring for his morning wash, and also to look at the stone which had so strongly resembled a head.
There was the clear basin from which he had drunk, and there were the places where he had rested his hands; but there was no stone that could by any possibility have looked like a head even in the darkness, and he returned at last to the tent feeling strangely uncomfortable, and in no good condition for his breakfast.
“Come, Saxe,” cried Dale, as he sat eating his bread and fried bacon. “Didn’t you sleep well? Not unwell, are you?”
“I? No—oh no! Why?”
“Because you are making a very poor meal, and it will be many hours before we eat again.”
Saxe went on with his breakfast; but somehow he did not enjoy it, and his thoughts were either occupied with the terrible face which stood out clear before him as he had seen it the previous night, or he was asking himself whether he should not take Melchior into his confidence, and ask him his opinion about what he had seen.
“I shall not want to stop here to-night,” he said to himself. “It is too horrible to feel that a hideous creature like that is always close at hand.”
“Now, then,” cried Dale, breaking in upon his meditations; “pack up, and let’s start for the bottom of the glacier. How long will it take us?”
“Nearly two hours, herr.”