"I can't—"
"Why not? Have you hurt yourself?"
"I think—my wrist—"
"Yes; what is it?"
"Only—twisted—"
"Was that why you had to give way? Is the pain very bad?"
"Yes." The monosyllable did for both questions.
Fulvia had one arm over the bough by this time. She quitted her grip of it with the other, and grasped Ethel's dress instead.
"That will help you, will it not?" she said. "Now you cannot go. Ethel, be brave; do try to hope. Somebody is sure to come soon. You must not let yourself faint. This can't last long."
It could not indeed, in another sense, as Fulvia well knew. Their position was rapidly becoming most serious. Her own powers lessened fast, and Ethel drooped more each minute. Now and again it seemed to Fulvia that the clasp of those thin fingers was loosening. She held Ethel tightly, alternately imploring her to keep up, and shouting for aid; but still no one came, and it was impossible that Fulvia should long support Ethel as well as herself.