“What for?”
“To go and see what it is.”
“That’s right. Give him the lanthorn, Melchior. We’ll follow him directly.”
The guide swung the lanthorn round from where it hung at his belt, detached it, lit it; and, with the confidence afforded by the light, Saxe grasped his ice-axe firmly, and walked right in, preceded once more by the goat.
The mingling of the light with the amethystine gloom had a very beautiful effect, as the former flashed from the surface of the walls and made the ice glitter; but Saxe had no eyes then for natural beauties. He could think of nothing but the flying lumps of ice, and, oddly enough, the remembrance of the horrible head which he had seen in the night now came strongly back.
But he went on, and, if not boldly, at any rate with a fixed determination to see the adventure to the end.
Saxe was able to penetrate farther this time, with the goat pattering on before him; and to show that there was no fancy in the matter, the light flashed from some broken fragments of ice lying close beside the rushing stream. But though he held the lanthorn high above his head, he could see nothing, only the dim arch, the line of shining water, and the pale stony floor.
Just ahead, though, the stream took a sudden bend round to the left, and the dry portion of the stone taking the same direction, Saxe went on, involuntarily raising his axe as if there might be danger round beyond that bend where the ice projected like a buttress.
He was close upon it now, and, holding the light well up with his left hand, he was in the act of turning the corner, when something moved out of the darkness on the other side, and Saxe stood once more petrified with horror as the light fell upon the huge face he had seen in the night, but hideously distorted, and with the glowing bloodshot eyes within six inches of his own.