"Afterwards. You first."
He made all ready, bracing himself securely as near to the couloir as he could stand, while within reach if Pressford should move. Then, as Doris began her descent, he let out the rope with extreme caution. Going down was, of course, in itself more risky than going up, but the rope gave confidence and meant safety. Twice she slipped, and Maurice held firmly, till she regained her balance.
Arriving at the snow-plateau, she freed herself, and stood watching, while Maurice hauled the rope in, fastened it round Pressford, and slowly lowered the latter to her side. This done, he followed, fixing part of the rope to aid him over the worst rocks.
"Mr. Pressford seems rousing up a little," Doris announced. "He said something quite sensible just now."
The "something sensible" must have been hazy in nature, judging from the mutter which greeted Maurice. But after a few sips of cold tea, when Maurice had tied up the wound on his friend's head with a silk handkerchief, Pressford really showed signs of reviving.
"What has happened?" he was able to ask.
"You've had an awkward fall, old man. Did you lose your hold?"
"No—" after a pause for recollection. "No—I believe—the rock gave."
"Hard luck! But you'll do now, I hope."
Pressford seemed to lose himself again; and some time elapsed before his next remark. "Miss Winton—sorry—disappointed. Can't bag our peak to-day."