"Thirty-six strips, each six feet long; that will reach some way down, even allowing for the knots," replied Denis.
"Can you trust your knots?"
"Most perfectly; I am famous for knots, I make them tighter than even those of wedlock."
A long pause of silence followed. It was broken by the impatient Denis.
"I say, Walter, don't dawdle so over your food; eat fast, and have done with it. I could get on twice as rapidly if you held the cloth whilst I cut it. The sun has almost set."
Walter did not refuse his help. Somewhat gloomily and silently he assisted the Irishman at his work. Denis laboured energetically; the strips were all divided at last, just as it became too dark to direct the knife.
Then came the tying of the knots. Denis strained them with all his might to be sure that they would not slip. Such work could be done in semi-darkness. It was by feeling, not by sight, that the rope was fastened to the iron hook in the wall, and first the end, then the remaining length let down through the window. During the last hour scarcely a word had been spoken.
"Denis, if you make your way down in safety, how will you find any path to the road?"
"Trust an Irishman for finding his way; it's an instinct," was the reply.
"Will your strength suffice for the journey on foot? You are likely to be pursued."