“That is not their wont,” returned Sir Kasimir.
“I see him,” interrupted Ebbo. “Nay, but he is a bold climber! We went up to that stage, close to the balcony, but there’s no footing beyond but crockets and canopies.”
“And a bit of rotten scaffold,” added Friedel. “Perhaps he is a builder going to examine it! Up higher, higher!”
“A builder!” said Ebbo; “a man with a head and foot like that should be a chamois hunter! Shouldst thou deem it worse than the Red Eyrie, Friedel?”
“Yea, truly! The depth beneath is plainer! There would be no climbing there without—”
“Without what, cousin?” asked Wildschloss.
“Without great cause,” said Friedel. “It is fearful! He is like a fly against the sky.”
“Beaten again!” muttered Ebbo; “I did think that none of these town-bred fellows could surpass us when it came to a giddy height! Who can he be?”
“Look! look!” burst out Friedel. “The saints protect him! He is on that narrowest topmost ledge—measuring; his heel is over the parapet—half his foot!”
“Holding on by the rotten scaffold pole! St. Barbara be his speed; but he is a brave man!” shouted Ebbo. “Oh! the pole has broken.”