"Father! father! father!" screamed Walter, throwing himself on the ice, horror-stricken, and peering wildly down the crevasse. "Father, speak!"
All was silent. Only a slight trickling, as if from some subterranean stream, reached his ear.
For several minutes the youth lay at the edge of the chasm, paralyzed with terror. When he recovered his consciousness, a feeling of alarm and distress overwhelmed him. He wept, and wrung his hands bitterly.
"Father!" he cried again into the abyss that yawned beneath him—"father, speak to me, for God's sake!"
A sudden thrill passed through his frame as a low murmur came up from the icy grave. He strained his ears to listen to the broken words. "I am alive, Watty," was the reply of the unfortunate man; "but my ankle is out of joint, and one of my arms broken. I shall never see the light of day again."
A cry of mingled joy and agony burst from Walter's lips.
"Don't be afraid, father," he exclaimed. "You shall be rescued, with God's help. Have you got your bag with you?"
"Yes, but my bottle is broken."
"Well, then, take mine. I'll lower it down with a cord. Have you got it?"
"Yes," was feebly answered. "I can hold out now for a while, unless the cold strikes me."