Fortunate indeed was it for Wentworth that the châlet was inhabited at that time of year, and that its occupier happened to be there that day. The latter, who had watched the ascent, and had seen some of the party on the cone just before the cloud had hidden everything, was a trifle uneasy himself. But the sight of a tall athletic young Englishman tearing down the slope in his shirtsleeves confirmed his fears. He put two and two together, and, being a quick-witted fellow, had started to meet Philip with all the ropes his establishment could muster.
All this was shouted down to Wentworth for the encouragement of the latter. And the excitement of those on the arête, no less than that of the party left behind on the high col, became more and more intense as they watched the distance diminish between them and the bearers of the needful ropes, upon which depended a fellow-creature’s life. Minutes seemed hours. But what must they have seemed to the man who hung there over that dizzy height—his strength ebbing fast—counting the very seconds to the time his rescue should begin!
By the time Philip and the cowherd had joined him, together with Gedge, who had come to render what help he could, Fordham’s plan was laid. They could not all stand on the narrow arête in such wise as to obtain anything like the requisite purchase on the rope. But on the other side of the ridge a precipitous fall of rock, some ten or twelve feet, ended in an abrupt grass slope. Here two of them could stand, holding the end of the rope, while two more on the apex of the ridge could direct the ascent of the rescued man as well as assist in hauling.
“Now, Phil,” he said, “if you’ve quite got back your wind”—for the two men were somewhat out of breath with their rapid climb—“get away down there with Gedge, and hold on like grim death. No, Miss Wyatt, not you,” in response to an appeal on Alma’s part to be allowed to help. “Four of us will be enough. We can manage easily.”
There were two good lengths of rope, each about forty feet—for the peasants in mountain localities frequently adopt the precaution of tying themselves together when mowing the grass on some of the more dangerous and precipitous slopes. These were securely knotted together and manned as aforesaid.
“I don’t like knots,” muttered Fordham, as he let down the end, having first tied his flask to the same with a bit of twine the stopper being loosened so as to render the contents accessible without an effort—“I don’t like knots, but there’s no help for it. Now, Wentworth,” he shouted, “is that right?”
“Little more to the left—about a yard and a half. There—so. All right. I’ve got it. Pay out a little more line.”
“Take a pull at the flask, and then sing out when you’re quite ready,” bawled Fordham.
There was silence for a few minutes, then:
“Ready. Haul away,” cried Wentworth.