Dale was heavily thrown, and Saxe could dimly see a short, squat figure upon his breast. Then he saw Melchior appear out of the gloom, and quick as lightning twist a loop of the rope tightly round the arms of the figure, binding them to its side.
“Now, herr, up with you,” cried Melchior, “and help me. Show the light, Herr Saxe. Ah! that’s right: down on his face. Good. Your foot on the back of his neck. Now I have him. Good English rope: he will not break that.”
As the guide spoke he wound his rope round the figure’s hands, which he had dragged behind its back, and tied them fast, serving the legs in the same way, in spite of the fierce howlings and horrible yellings made.
“That will do,” cried the guide at last, and he stooped down over his prisoner. “Not hurt, are you, herr?”
“Well—yes, I am. It was like wrestling with a bull, and he has bitten my arm.”
“Not through your clothes, herr?” cried the guide excitedly.
“No: I suppose it is only like a pinch; but it was as if it were nipped in a vice.”
“Show the light here, young herr,” continued Melchior, as he turned the captive over. “He is beautiful, is he not?”
“Horrible!” ejaculated Dale, with a shudder. “Good heavens! who and what is he?”
“The most hideous cretin in Switzerland, herr. Poor wretch! he had no brains, but his strength is terrible. He is from the valley next to Andregg’s. I don’t know what he can be doing here.”