Chapter Forty One.
Melchior wakes up.
The boy’s lips parted, but no words came; his arm was raised with its weapon, but he could not strike—only stand shivering; until, by a tremendous effort, he flung himself round and dashed back.
“Why, hallo, lad! what is it? Have you seen a ghost?”
Saxe tried to speak, but no words would come for a few moments.
“Yes—no,” he panted at last. “Something dreadful—in there.”
Dale caught up the ice-axe which he had laid down while he was measuring, and turned to the guide.
“What is it likely to be, Melchior—a bear?”
“I cannot say, herr,” said the guide, whose countenance changed a little as he, too, caught up his ice-axe. “But I should think not—in there.”