Each instant it seemed as though the swaying thread on which his life depended would snap. Beads of sweat stood out upon Seymour’s forehead as he watched his friend’s perilous progress.
The American’s lithe body swayed and danced like a puppet, as his hands clasped and unclasped upon the rope.
Halfway across he paused for a brief rest, then on he toiled once more, until he reached the crag to which the rope was fastened.
With a supreme effort he dragged himself upon the rock, and lay panting awhile as the result of his tremendous exertions.
When he had somewhat recovered, he rose, and made a careful examination of the rope at the point where it encircled the crag.
“Unlash it for a moment, Seymour,” he called, his voice echoing strangely from the depths of the chasm.
As the baronet complied with his request, Silas removed the noose. Taking off his jacket, he wrapped it closely around the rock, replacing the rope over it.
“I guess that’ll keep it from wearing through,” he said. “If you’ll do the same your side, it will lessen the risk of it snapping.”
Sir William followed his example, then launched himself cautiously over the brink. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he advanced, though the rope cut his hands like a knife. His arms seemed to be leaving their sockets through the strain, and his eyes grew dim and bloodshot, yet he still dragged onward.
Longingly he gazed upon the opposite lip of the gorge, where Haverly sat at ease. Would he be able to hold out? It seemed doubtful, for his strength was ebbing fast. His great weight made his crossing ten times more difficult than the lighter-built Yankee’s had been.