"Ah, be careful! Shall I come down to you?" For the first time she realised his peril.
"Over rocks that are steepest," he quoted gaily, between grunts of hard breathing. He had handhold now. "Hero on her tower—and faith, Leander came near to swimming for it—once or twice" (grunt) "Over the mountains, And over the waves—hullo! that rock of yours overhangs. What's to the left?" (grunt) "Grass? I mistrust grass on these ledges. . . . Reach down your hand, dear Ruth, to steady me only. . . ."
She flung herself prone on the flat rock beside the fire, and gave a hand to him. He caught it, heaved himself over the ledge with a final grunt of triumph, and dropped beside her, panting and laughing.
"You might have killed yourself!" she shivered.
"And whom, then, would you have reproached?"
"You might have killed yourself—and then—and then I think I should have died too."
"Ruth!"
"My lord will be hungry. He shall rest here and eat."
He flung a glance towards the cabin; or rather—for the dusk hid its outlines—towards the light that shone cosily through the window-hatch.
"Not yet!" she murmured. "My lord shall rest here for a while." She was kneeling now to draw off his shoes. He drew away his foot, protesting.