“Ach! Dummkopf! What do you do?” cried the guide angrily; for just at that moment the mule uttered a loud squeal, arched its back, and leaped off the rock; came down on all fours, and then threw itself upon its flanks, in spite of a jerk at the bridle; squealed again, and threw up its legs, which fell back against the rocky wall; threw them up again, and for a moment they were perpendicular, so well was the balance kept, as the animal wriggled its spine so as to get a good rub on the rock. Then, while the two travellers realised the danger of this taking place on the narrow platform, not a dozen feet above the rushing water, and Melchior still jerked at the bridle, over went the animal’s legs toward the edge, and it tried to gather them up for another roll.
It had another roll, but it was a roll off the edge, and almost before Dale and his companion could fully grasp the extent of the accident, the mule fell with a tremendous splash into the stream, jerking Melchior after it by the wrist. Then they both disappeared. But only for a few moments.
“Look! look!” yelled Saxe, as the mule’s head shot up in the shadow thirty or forty feet farther in, so swift was the current. Then up came its forelegs, and it began to paw the water like a drowning dog, just as Melchior rose to the surface, but only in time to receive the hoofs of the struggling mule on his chest, and he disappeared again, while the water rolled the mule over and down out of sight.
The next moment both were swept right into the gloomy cavernous place, to what was evidently certain death.
Chapter Nine.
The Horrors of a Schlucht.
Saxe stood now paralysed with horror, and it was not until Dale had shaken him twice that his fixed, wild manner began to pass off.
“Stop here,” cried Dale: “you are too much unnerved to come.”