"Yes—yes that will do. I'll get him—if you'll just lower him the least little bit. Yes—so—a little more."
Inch by inch, as Maurice allowed the rope to slip through his stiff and aching fingers, Pressford descended. Doris, steadying herself, grasped him by the boots, pulled him towards the ledge, and called for further slackening. Soon he lay at full length, and she knelt to support his head.
"It's all right!"—once more in ringing tones. "He is here—safe—on the ledge with me."
"Can you unrope him, and fix the rope securely?"
"I'll try."
She freed the rope from Pressford, and then, with a good deal of difficulty, succeeded in fastening it strongly round a crag.
"I think it will do now. I've pulled hard, and it holds," she said.
"Stay where you are. I'm coming."
She could hear but could not see Maurice's movements. The waiting, the inaction, tried her much, after the past strain and exertion. Pressford did not stir, but once or twice she heard him mutter an incoherent word. She could see that he had had a heavy blow on the head, where his hair was matted with blood.
Keeping a hand on his shoulder, lest he should try to get up, she counted the slow moments. "If Maurice should slip," became a haunting fear. True, he had the rope; and that, if it held, would keep him from falling far. But what if she had not made the rope quite secure? What if the crag should snap under a sudden jerk? What if he, in his turn, should be stunned?