It was then that, at the sound of a faint cry from somewhere far above them, all three looked up. And the sight they beheld was appalling.
Hundreds of feet above the place where they stood, sheltered by a cranny in the face of the cliff, there grew a gnarled and twisted shrub, a kind of withered tree. In the midst of this, caught like a fish in a net, was a man who, even as they watched him, moved, twisting like a thing in pain.
Cortes scanned the face of the cliff; but, look where he might, he could discover no way by which it was possible to ascend to the place where his brother was suspended in mid-air.
Running back several yards, he regarded the precipice above the withered tree. It was equally inaccessible from above. Then he raised his hands to his mouth and cried out in a loud voice, calling upon his brother by name.
The answer came in a voice so weak that Cortes had to hold a hand to an ear in order to catch the words.
"I am in pain. My arm is broken. Can you not come to my assistance?"
The younger brother looked about him in despair.
"Can nothing be done?" asked Harry.
"Let me think," said Cortes, and lifted a hand to his eyes. On a sudden he cried out to his brother. "Can you hold out for two days?" he asked.
"For two days!" came the answer. "It is too long."