Saxe was silent for a few moments, and then said huskily--

"He is not there!"

"He must be. Look again."

"Swing the lanthorn backwards and forwards."

Dale responded by gradually making the lanthorn describe a considerable arc.

"No--no! No--no!" cried Saxe, as he swept the ledge with his eyes from end to end.

Dale was silent for a time. Then he said huskily--

"Can you hold out while I lower the lanthorn as far as the string will go?"

"Yes."

The light descended like a star going down into another firmament of as deep and dark a blue as that above; and as Saxe watched he saw it reflected from the dark walls. Then lower, lower, and down and down, till suddenly it stopped.

"That is all the string--a hundred yards. Can you see him now!"

"No!" said Saxe hoa.r.s.ely.

"You can see nothing!"

"Only the lamp swinging and the ice shining."

"Hold fast!" cried Dale, and the rope began to quiver in a peculiar way, as if it were receiving a series of jerks; but Saxe guessed that this must mean that it was being hauled up handover-hand. There was no one gazing down at him now, and he had a full view of the blue strip of sky, which now grew broader and broader, till, after what seemed to have been a very long ascent, the top of the creva.s.se was reached.

"Now," said Dale, "reach over as far as you can, and drive in the pick of your axe."

Saxe obeyed.

"Now try and draw yourself up. That's right. I've got hold of the rope. Now--together! That's right."

There was a heavy tug, and as some more snow rattled down into the gulf Saxe was drawn over the edge on to the surface, where the first thing he noticed was the fact that the other end of the rope had been fastened round Dale's waist and pa.s.sed round the ashen handle, so that when Dale had lain down he had been able to support Saxe, and yet leave his hands free.

"Untie yourself," said Dale gravely. "I am going to draw up the lanthorn."

"And what are you going to do then?" asked Saxe, who lay on the snow panting, as if he had just gone through some very great exertion.

"Go back and give notice. Get together two or three guides, and consult with them as to what is best to be done."

"Then you give him up?" said Saxe mournfully.

Dale looked at him in silence, for there seemed to be no answer needed to such a question, as he slowly wound in the string which held the lanthorn.

"Now, back to the valley as fast as we can," said Dale, as he dragged his ice-axe out of the crack and threw the rope over his shoulder, and glanced round at the sky. "Got the lanthorn and string?"

"Yes," replied Saxe; "but we cannot get there before night."

"We cannot get any farther than the camp before dark, my boy," said Dale sadly. "It is impossible to go on then. We must wait there till daybreak, and then go for help."

"One minute, sir," said Saxe; but it was three or four before he could go on.

"Yes," said Dale.

"I only wanted to ask whether you think he is dead!"

"I'd give five years of my life, boy, to be able to say no; but I cannot!"

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

FROM OUT OF THE DEPTHS.

They began to descend the great ice-torrent in solemn silence; but before they had gone fifty yards Saxe stopped short, darted a wild, apologetic look at Dale, and began to run back toward the creva.s.se.

Dale followed him more slowly, and reached the boy as he was lying down with his head and shoulders over the brink.

"Mel--chi--or!" shouted Saxe, with his hands on either side of his mouth--a long-drawn, piteous cry, in which he formed the name into three syllables; and as Dale leaned over and listened to the strange hollow reverberations down below, it was as if a voice repeated the last syllable in a faint, appealing whisper.

"There!" cried Saxe excitedly; "I couldn't go without trying once more.

I knew it: he isn't dead! You heard that?"

"Yes," said Dale, with a pitying look at his companion, "I heard that."

"Well? He's not dead. I'll stay here, and keep shouting to him now and then, while you go for help. Run at once. Stop a minute. Give me your flask; I'll lower it down to him with the string."

"Saxe, my lad," said Dale sadly, "you are buoying yourself up with false hopes."

"No, no! I heard him answer distinctly," cried Saxe wildly. "Hark!

I'll call again. Melchior, Mel--chi--or!"

He gave forth the last cry with all his might, emphasising the "chi-- or!" and, probably from his being on the opposite side of the creva.s.se, and more favourably placed for the acoustic phenomenon, the syllables were repeated, after a pause, faintly but distinctly--an effect that had not been produced by any of the lad's cries on the other side of the creva.s.se.

"There!" cried Saxe.

Dale laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder, and shook his head sadly.

Then, bending down, he too shouted--

"A-hoy-oy-oy!"

And, after a pause, there came up distinctly the latter part of the word.

"Ahoy!" shouted Dale again, sharply.

"Hoy!" came up.