"Let us just have a glance at it," suggested Monica. "It's not an ordinary common or garden well, you know."
"Well, just a peep," replied Nat, as they came abreast of the fencing that bordered the well-mouth. Monica pointed to the rusty but stout windlass that was erected over it.
"Is that what the Saxons used to draw up their water?"
"Don't be silly! I suppose the last occupants of the farm used it for watering their cattle." As Nat spoke she slipped through the bars of the fence and, crouching down, tried to peer over the edge of the well, around which the grass grew in thick, coarse tufts. From outside the fence you could only see the outline of the wide, gaping mouth.
"Be careful!" Monica said anxiously, and though she also slipped through the fence, which stood several feet away from the well itself, she was careful to remain standing close beside it with a firm hold on the top bar. She had not Nat's utter contempt of physical danger; moreover, her more vivid imagination was apt to see danger where Nat never thought of looking for it.
How the accident happened neither girl could clearly explain afterwards, but it was probably due to the fact that the high grass and soil around the unusually wide mouth of the well hung treacherously far over the edge. By the irony of fate Nat was just saying: "I should like to know how deep it is. I can't see down it without bending right over——" when her words broke off abruptly as the soil and clumps of grass at the edge gave way under her. She made a desperate but futile effort to recover her balance, then disappeared over the edge amid a shower of dirt and small stones. Monica made one frantic clutch after her and actually succeeded in grasping her sleeve, but the material was torn out of her hand in the same second.
For one awful instant Monica stood rooted to the spot with terror, clutching frantically at the fence. Then, flinging herself flat on the ground, she lay as near the edge of the well as she dared and shouted: "Nat! Nat!" as loudly as she could.
But there was no answer to her frenzied calls. Springing to her feet again she stared wildly round. Not a soul was in sight, nor could she see any signs of habitation. So ignorant was she of this countryside that she did not even know in what direction to search for the nearest house. She might waste a long time wandering vainly about. The hounds were nowhere in view; it might be twenty minutes or more before any of them arrived at this spot. If Nat were injured she would even now be drowning in the well water. What—oh, what could she do?
All these thoughts flashed through Monica's mind in a few fleeting seconds. Then her glance fell upon the windlass and the rope hanging over the well-mouth, falling into the depths below. It was only six years, Nat had said, since the farm had been occupied and the well used. Holding the windlass with one hand she bent forward and, catching the rope with the other, gave it a strong tug. The rope was a stout one, and although frayed on the outside by the weather seemed sound enough.
Monica had already learned to climb the ropes in the gymnasium with confidence, and clutching this rope frenziedly with both hands she swung herself over the well-mouth. For one horrible moment she hung there suspended by her hands; the next she had found and gripped the rope firmly between her feet and was sliding down in a series of jerks, hand over hand. Four—five—six—she counted them to herself, and now her head was considerably below the edge of the well-mouth; then her heart gave a jump of horror, as her feet failed to grip the rope and she realized that she had now come to the end of it before reaching the surface of the water.