This conversation between the brothers had occurred, long before the losing of the kite. When that event came to pass, it was not necessary for them to repeat it; and, both being thus acquainted with the fact that it was impossible for them to construct another, they felt that they had sustained an irreparable loss.
In what direction had the kite been carried off? Might it not be blown along the line of cliffs, and tossed back again into the valley?
As there appeared some probability that such a chance might arise, all three ran outward from the rocks—in order to command a better view of the precipice, on each side.
For a long time they stood watching—in hopes that they might see the great paper-bird returning to the scene of its nativity. But it never came back; and they became at length convinced, that it never would. Indeed, the direction of the wind—when they paused to consider it—rendered the thing not only improbable, but impossible. It was blowing from the cliffs, and towards the snowy ridge. No doubt the kite had been carried up the sloping acclivity; and had either passed clear over the mountains, or become lodged in some deep defile, where the wind could no longer reach it. At all events, it was certain, that both kite and cord were lost to them for ever.
“Ach! how very unfortunate!” exclaimed Caspar, in a vexed tone, when they had finally arrived at this conviction. “What ill-starred luck we have, to be sure!”
“Nay! brother,” remarked Karl, in a tone of reproval; “do not chide Fortune for what has happened just now. I acknowledge it is a great misfortune; but it is one for which we may justly blame ourselves, and only ourselves. By sheer negligence we have lost the kite, and along with it, perhaps, the last chance of regaining our liberty.”
“Yes, you speak truly,” rejoined Caspar, in a tone of mingled regret and resignation. “It was our fault, and we must suffer for it.”
“But are you quite sure, brother Karl,” resumed he, after a pause, and referring to the conversation that had already passed between them—“are you quite sure there are no more of these paper-bearing trees?”
“Of course,” replied the plant-hunter, “I am not positive—though I fear it is as I have said—that there are no more. It will be easy for us to determine the point, by making a complete exploration of the valley. It may be that something else might turn up which would answer the purpose equally as well. There is a birch-tree indigenous to the Himalaya mountains, found both in Nepaul and Thibet. Its bark can be stripped off in broad flakes and layers, to the number of eight or ten—each almost as thin as common paper, and suitable for many purposes to which paper is usually applied.”
“Do you think it would do for a kite?” inquired Caspar, without waiting for Karl to finish his explanation.