“Ah!” exclaimed Melchior: “you saw that? I thought so, from that cry.”
“Well, what is it? Do you know?”
“Yes, I know!” cried the guide angrily: “who could be so weak? Come on, herr. Give Herr Saxe the light, and be ready to help me. He is as strong as a lion if he attacks us, but he will not dare. Throw at travellers, will he? Come on.”
Melchior was already striding forward, with his axe handle ready; and, angry at getting no farther explanation, Dale followed, with Saxe close up, now taking and holding the lanthorn on high so that it nearly touched the icy roof.
They were not kept long in suspense, for there was another hideous cry, which seemed to send all the blood back to the boy’s heart, and then there was a rush made from the dark part of the grotto; a loud, excited ejaculation or two; the sound of a heavy blow delivered with a staff; and in the dim light cast by the lanthorn Saxe saw that both Dale and Melchior were engaged in a desperate struggle.
The boy’s position was exciting in the extreme, and thought after thought flashed through his brain as to what he should do, the result being that he did nothing, only held the lanthorn, so that those who struggled and wrestled, before him could see.
In spite of the hoarse, inhuman howling he could hear close to him, all superstitious notions were now gone. Dale and Melchior were too evidently engaged with human beings like themselves; and the next instant there was a heavy blow, a cry and a fall.
“Rightly served,” cried Melchior, “whoever you are. Now, herr, you hold him, and I’ll use my rope.”
“Quick, then!” panted Dale hoarsely: “he’s too strong for me. Hah!”