“No, no,” said Dale sadly, “that cannot be Melchior. It is some herdsman; but we’ll go and meet him and get his help.”
“It is Melchior,” said Saxe decidedly.
“I would to Heaven it were, Saxe! Impossible! That man is a mile away. Distances are deceptive.”
“I don’t care if he’s a hundred miles away,” cried Saxe; “it’s old Melk, and he’s safe.”
“You are deceiving yourself, boy.”
“I’m not, sir. I’m sure of it; and he’s all right. You see!”
He snatched off his hat, and began to wave it, bursting out at the same time into the most awful parody of a Swiss jodel that ever startled the mountains, and made them echo back the wild, weird sounds.
“There! Look!” cried Saxe excitedly, as the mounted man took off his hat, waved it in the air, and there floated toward them, faintly heard but beautifully musical, the familiar jodel they had heard before. Then, as it ceased, it was repeated from the rocks to the right, far louder, and made more musical by the reaction nearer at hand.
“There!” cried Saxe, “what did I tell you?” and he capered about on the moving rock, waving his hat and shouting again, “I—o—a—a—de—ah—diah—diah— Oh! Murder!”
Dale was in the act of saying, “Take care!” when the mass of stone careened over, and Saxe was compelled to take a flying leap downward on to another piece, off which he staggered ten feet lower, to come down with a crash.