CHAPTER XI.--THUS HAND IN HAND THE BROTHERS SLEEP.
They arrived at the plateau in the afternoon, and cautiously, yet quickly was the plank placed over.
Frank did not wait to attach the rope to his waist, so eager was he. The yawning green gulf beneath him might have tried the nerve of Blondin. He paused not to think, however, but went over almost with the speed of a bird upon the wing, and more slowly the others followed.
They brought with them the end of the coils of rope, and these were speedily hauled across.
For a few moments Frank and Duncan stood silently clasping each other's hands; and the Cockney lad could tell by the look of anguish in his Highland cousin's face that the worst had occurred.
"Too late! too late!" Duncan managed to say at last, and he turned quickly away to hide the blinding tears.
"Poor Conal," explained the captain, "is lying down yonder--that black object is he enveloped in rugs, but he has made no sign for hours, and doubtless is frozen hard enough ere now."
"Come," cried Frank, "be of good cheer, my dear Duncan, till we are certain. Perhaps he does but sleep."
"Yes, he sleeps," said Duncan mournfully, "and death is the only door which leads from the sleep that cold and frost bring in their train."
"Come, men," cried Frank, now taking command, for he was full of life and energy, "uncoil the rope most carefully. I am light, Captain Talbot, so I myself will make the descent. I shall at once send poor Conal to bank, or as soon as I can get him bent on. Haul up when I shout."
When all the rope was got loose and made into one great coil, the end was thrown over into the crevice to make sure it would reach.
It did reach, with many fathoms to spare; so it was quickly hauled up and recoiled again.
A bight was now made at one end, and into this brave Frank quickly, and with sailor-like precision, hitched himself.
"Lower away now, men. Gently does it. Draw most carefully up as soon as I shout. When poor Conal is drawn to bank, lower again for me."
Next minute Frank had disappeared over the brink of the abyss, and was quickly and safely landed beneath.
He approached the bundle of rugs with a heart that never before felt so brimful of anguish and doubt.
And now he carefully draws aside the coverings. A pale face, white and hard, half-open eyes, and a pained look about the lowered brows and drawn lips.
Is there hope?
Frank will not permit himself even to ask the question.
But speedily he forms a strong hammock with one of the rugs. Not a sailor's knot ever made that this boy is not well acquainted with. And now, after making sure that all is secure, he signals, and five minutes after this the body is got to bank without a single hitch.
Then while two men, with Captain Talbot and Duncan, commence operations on the stiff and apparently frozen body, the others lower away again, and presently after Frank's young and earnest face is seen above the snow-rift.
He is helped up, and proceeds at once to lend assistance.
Conal had been a favourite with all the men, and now they work in relays, the one relay relieving the other every five minutes, chafing and rubbing hands, arms, legs, and chest with spirits.
Duncan can do nothing.
He seems stupefied with grief.
After nearly half an hour of hard rubbing and kneading, to the skipper's intense joy the flesh of the arms begins to get softer. Presently a blue knot appears on one, and he knows there is a slight flicker of life reviving in the apparently lifeless body.
The lamp may flicker with a dying glare, and Talbot knows this well, so he refrains from communicating his hopes to disconsolate Duncan.
But he endeavours now to restore respiration, by slowly and repeatedly pressing the arms against the chest, and alternately raising them above the head.
The rubbing goes on.
Soon the eyelids quiver!
There seems to be a struggle, for the poor boy's face turns red--nay, almost blue. Then there is a deep convulsive sigh.
Just such a sigh as this might be his last on earth, or it might be the first sign of returning life.
Talbot puts his hand on Conal's cold wrist. The pulse flickers so he scarce can feel it; but it is there.
Operations are redoubled. Sigh after sigh is emitted, and soon--
"Heaven be praised!" cries Captain Talbot, for of his own accord Conal opens his eyes.
He even murmurs something, and shuts them once more, as if in utter weariness he fain would go to sleep.
But that sleep might end in death. No, he must be revived.
The circulation increases.
The life so dear to all is saved, for now Conal can swallow a little brandy.
Duncan's head has fallen on his knee and open palms as he crouches shivering on the snow, and the tears that have welled through his fingers lie in frozen drops on his clothing.
Gently, so gently, steals Talbot up behind him. Gently, so gently, he lays one hand on his shoulder.
"Duncan, can you bear the news?"
"Yes, yes, for the bitterness of death is past."
"But it is not death, dear lad, but--life."
"Life! I cannot believe it! Have you saved him?
"Then," he added, "my Father, who art in heaven, receive Thou the praise!
"And you, friend Talbot," he continued, pressing his captain's hand, "the thanks."
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Conal was got safely back over the crevasse, and in his extempore hammock borne tenderly down the mountain-side until the plain below was reached.
But by this time he is able to raise his eyes and speak to his now joyful brother.
He even tries to smile.
"A narrow squeak, wasn't it?" he says.
His brother scarce can answer, so nervous does he feel after the terrible shock to the system.
The men, however, are thoroughly exhausted, and so under the shelter of a rock a camp is formed once more, and supper cooked.
Coffee and condensed milk seem greatly to restore the invalid, and once more he feels drowsy.
Soon the sun sets, and it being considered not unsafe now to permit Conal to sleep, the best couch possible is made for him, and a tin flask of hot water being laid near to his heart, his skin becomes warm, and he is soon afterwards sleeping and breathing as gently and freely as a child of tender years.
There is a little darkness to-night; but a moon is shining some short distance up in the sky and casting long dark shadows from the boulders across that dazzling field of snow.
Diamond stars are in the sky.
Yes, and there seems to be a diamond in every snowflake.
Duncan will not sleep, however, till he has seen his brother's face once more and heard him breathe. "For what," he asks himself, "if his recovery be but a dream from which I shall presently awake?"
His own rugs are laid close to his brother's, and he gently removes a corner of the latter, and lets the moon-rays fall on Conal's face.
The boy opens his eyes.
"Is it you, Duncan?"
"It is me, my brother."
"Then hold my hand and I shall sleep."
Duncan did as he was told.
"Duncan!"
"Yes, Conal."
"I feel as if I were a child again once more, but oh! how foolishly, how stupidly nervous."
"We are both so. Yet, blessed be Heaven, you will recover, Conal, and I shall also."
"When I was really a child, Duncan, my mother, our mother, used to croon over my cradle verses from that sweet old hymn of Isaac Watts. Do you remember it?"
"Ay, Conal, lad, and the music too."
"It is so sweet and plaintive. Sing it, Duncan. That is, just a verse or two; for sleep, it seems to me, is already beginning to steal down on the moonbeams to seal my aching eyes."
Duncan had a beautiful voice; but he could modulate it, so that no one could hear it many yards away. This does he now.
Singing to Conal as mother used to sing it. Singing to Conal and to Conal only.
"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber!
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head."
Sleep does steal down on the moonbeams ere long, and seals the eyes of both.
Thus hand in hand the brothers sleep.