“Oh, I’ll speak,” said Saxe, as his eyes wandered over the blue water that lay like a mirror reflecting the mountains round. “What a place it looks for fish! There are plenty here, eh, Melchior?”
“I have seen small ones leap out—that is all.”
“But what’s the matter with the mule? He can’t get any farther.”
“Oh yes; there is a good path to where the river runs out. He does not like to go on by himself. I must get by him again, and lead.”
It was easier said than done, for the path was so narrow that Melchior had to press the mule close to the perpendicular rock, and hold on by the pack-saddle and then by the animal’s neck, to get by. Once he did slip, his foot gliding over the edge; but by throwing himself forward he saved himself, clung to the path for a few minutes as he hung over it, his chest and arms resting thereon till he could get one knee up.
The rest was easy, and he rose once more to his feet.
“Hah!” ejaculated Saxe, “I thought you were gone, and we had no rope to throw to you.”
“It was rather awkward, herr,” said the guide coolly. “It is bad, too, to get wet when one is hot with walking.”