“I’m used to mountains, and I can scramble over the rocks like a wild goat. Let us make a rope of our girdles;[1] you fasten it about me and let me down.”
It was the only chance of saving Nejib, and after a moment’s consultation the two masters consented. They bound the improvised rope about Archag’s loins, and let him down.
Our friend made good use of his hands and feet, and finally reached Nejib. He braced himself against a rock, gripping it with his right hand, while with the left he untied the rope and fastened it about Nejib. The lad had sprained his ankle, and his arm was badly bruised. Archag gave a whistle, and the rope began to go slowly up with its burden. The spectators held their breath in suspense: if a single girdle were to break, Nejib would be lost.
The rope ascended; one more last pull, and—Nejib was saved! The shock and pain had exhausted his strength, and he fell fainting on the grass. Mihran hodja hastened to take off the rope; he examined it carefully and then threw it down to Archag, who in a few moments gave the signal, and again the boys began pulling. Three-quarters of the ascent had been accomplished, when the rope began to split.
“Destowe, destowe (take care)!” all the boys cried out together, and Archag had just time to save himself by clinging to a projecting angle of rock. He discarded the rope, now useless, and set himself to climb up the narrow cleft in the cliff that rose sheer before him. By dint of fitting his feet to the rough surface of the rock, and gripping where he might with his hands, he managed to reach the top, but not without many a bruise.
His companions received him in their arms, and gave him a regular ovation. Nejib had come out of his swoon, and as he looked at Archag, his eyes filled with tears.
“Avf-edersin (forgive me),” he said, under his breath.
“Forgive you for what?”
“For pushing you that day when you were looking at Professor Missirian’s collection.”
“Was it you?”