Then he came sliding downward, faster and faster; making vain clutches at the rock to stay his fall,—till, from thirty feet above Maurice, he was brought up sharply thirty feet below, by the rope.
And there, to the dismay of Doris, he hung; heavy, motionless, as if without life.
[CHAPTER XX]
Only a Girl!
THE first intimation of anything wrong, received by Maurice, came in the shape of a shower of stones; and a sharp exclamation from above warned him what to expect.
He saw Pressford slide past, vainly trying to check his own rapid descent. And before Maurice had time for more than a lightning-flash of realisation, came the shock—the grip of the rope about his chest and body, almost cutting him in two.
It seemed more than he could endure. All his strength was needed to withstand that first overwhelming pull, which tore fiercely at him like a wolf, bringing positive agony. He was unable to breathe save in broken gasps.
Half-unconsciously he shifted his position, to ease the intolerable strain. Then, as the pain lessened, he could breathe and think again; and he began to ask himself what had happened.
Was Pressford killed—or only stunned—by this fall of some sixty feet on relentless rock?
He shouted, and there was no answer. He tried to haul at the rope which bound him to Pressford; but the effort only endangered his hold. He dared not stir. For the time he could bear the strain of his friend's weight. But—how long would he be able?