The guide laughed, patted Gros, who trudged on as fresh apparently as ever, till they reached the rough culm of a ridge, to look down at once on the snow slope to which they had to descend for a couple of hundred feet, the ridge they were on acting as a buttress to keep the snow from gliding down into the valley.
“Is that the last?” asked Saxe.
“Yes, herr. One hour’s quiet, steady work. Half an hour after, the fire will be burning and the kettle boiling for our tea.”
“What! up there in that snow!”
“No, herr: we shall have descended into the warm shelter of which I spoke.”
They soon reached the foot of the snow, which rose up in one broad smooth sheet, pure and white beyond anything existing lower down, and as, now thoroughly tired, Saxe gazed up at the beautiful curve descending from the mountains on either side, it seemed to be a tremendous way up.
“The snow is pretty hard,” said Melchior. “Use my steps.”
He clapped the mule on the haunch, and the sturdy beast set off at once up the laborious ascent, with its hoofs sinking in deeply, as instinctively it sloped off to the right instead of breasting the ascent at once.
“But what about the rope, Melchior?” said Dale sharply.
“There is no need for a rope here, herr. This snow lies on the solid rock, and every crevice and hollow is full, with the snow harder and more strong the deeper we go.”