“Melk, old chap!” cried Saxe, seizing one hand.
“Melchior, my good fellow!” cried Dale, seizing the other; “I thought we’d lost you.”
The guide’s sombre face lit up, and his eyes looked moist as he returned the friendly grasp.
“Thank you, herrs,” he said warmly, “thank you.”
“But you are hurt,” cried Dale.
“I thank you, no, herr; not much.”
“But tell us,” cried Saxe, who had been scanning him all the time, “where are you hurt?”
“Hurt? I am not hurt,” said the guide quietly. “A few bruises and a lump on my head—that is all.”
“But the mule,—he struck you down with his hoofs.”
“It was more of a push, herr.”