"No! No! You must not," he repeated. "I can't allow it. Could you find your way down the mountain, and send help?"
She surveyed the long steep slope, which they had mounted, and shook her head.
"No!" she called, a thrill of fresh resolution in her voice. "It would mean hours and hours. And I might miss my way. You could not hold him all that time."
"Yes, I could."
"No. You must let me climb. That is the only thing to be done."
He set his teeth and groaned, before replying—"I will not have it. I can't allow it, Doris." The name slipped out unconsciously, and it sent a glow through her.
"But he has to be saved. He must be saved. And there's no other way," she cried in terse phrases. "You must let me try." Then, as he still refused,—"But if it is my duty! You will not keep me from doing my duty!"
He had at length to give in. Pressford showed no signs of returning sense; and Doris's insistence swept aside his opposition. He began to realise that, if he refused consent, she would come without his consent. He doubted, too, whether to attempt the long descent of the mountain alone would mean for her less peril. She would have to go unroped, feeling anxious, distressed, hurried. The tax to nerve and strength would last through hours; and he would not be at hand to lend encouragement. For awhile still he held out; but at last, with a deadly sinking of heart, he was impelled to yield.
"But you must be very careful—very slow—" he urged. "Make sure of each hold before you leave the last. And if you find it too much, turn back at once."
"Yes, yes," she cried. "I'll be so careful. I promise."