“Of course not,” said Dale, returning to his observations. “Go in and see.”
It was on Saxe’s lips to say, “Never again!” for his thoughts flew back to his last night’s experience; but just then the goat bleated, looked inquiringly along the blue winding cavern, with its amethystine roof, and began to advance.
“There you are, Saxe,” cried Dale: “go after that goat and turn her back, or she’ll lose herself, and there’ll be no milk for tea.”
Saxe felt obliged to go now; and, calling himself a coward to be afraid to enter that long cellar-like place, he walked boldly in after the goat, turned the corner where the arch of light was left behind, with the two fingers busy chipping and measuring, and went on.
The goat looked very indistinct now, then it disappeared in the purple gloom; and it was only by listening to the pat-pat of its hoofs on the stone that Saxe could satisfy himself that it was going forward, and that there was no dangerous fall awaiting him.
Then the goat bleated again, and crick, crack, crash, came the sound of pieces of ice striking the walls and floor. The goat came bounding back, followed by another piece of ice, which broke close to Saxe’s feet, as he turned and took flight once more.
“Hullo!—back! Why, you look scared, boy!”
“There is ice falling or flying out.”
Dale laughed; and this put the boy upon his mettle, as he now argued with himself that help was very near.
“I want the lanthorn,” he said aloud.