“Yes,” said Saxe promptly; “there’s no means of getting along any farther.”
The guide smiled, went a little to the left, and plunged at once into a long crack between two masses of rock, so narrow that as the mule followed without hesitation, the sides of the basket almost touched the rock.
“We can’t say our guide is of no use, Saxe,” cried Dale, laughing. “Come along. Well, do you like this rough climbing, or would you rather get back to the paths of the beaten track.”
“I love it,” cried Saxe excitedly. “It’s all so new and strange. Why didn’t we come here before?”
“You should say, why do not the tourists come into these wild places instead of going year after year in the same ruts, where they can have big hotels and people to wait upon them? Look, there’s a view!” he continued, pointing along a narrow gorge between the mountains at a distant peak which stood up like the top of a sugar-loaf, only more white.
“I was looking at that view,” said Saxe, pointing downward at the hind quarters of the mule, which was the only part visible, the descent was so steep, to where they came upon a sheltered grove of pines, whose sombre green stood out in bright contrast to the dull grey rocks.
Then onward slowly for hours—at times in the valley, where their feet crushed the beautiful tufts of ferns; then the hoofs of the mule were clattering over rounded masses of stone, ground and polished, over which the patient beast slipped and slid, but never went down. Now and then there was a glimpse of a peak here or of another turning or rift there; but for the most part they were completely shut in down between walls of rock, which echoed their voices, bursting forth into quite an answering chorus when Melchior gave forth a loud, melodious jodel.
“But doesn’t any one live here?” said Saxe at last.
“No, herr!”
“No farmers or cottage people? Are there no villages?”