Whether the height turned him giddy, or he lost his balance by leaning too far, no one knew. There was only time for a cry of horror, and a frantic grasp into emptiness upon Hugh’s part. The child had fallen from the parapet!
The poor father staggered backward, his hand to his head—the two girls clung together, speechless; only Hugh was able to look over. The next moment he was shaking Mr. Seaton fiercely by the shoulder.
“Quick, sir! Down and cut the belfry ropes. Please God, we’ll save him yet!”
The Vicar, scarcely able to believe his ears, looked over.
Some nine feet down the tower, at each corner, a large projecting gargoyle served the purpose of a water-spout, and it was on one of these little Pauly had fallen—the creature’s stone ear having caught his blouse as he bumped against it in his fall. He was lying on his back across the gargoyle’s neck, his legs and head swinging into space, his frock hitched half across the hideous head. He was still at the moment, but how long would he remain so? Below him was a drop of seventy feet.
Hugh flung off his coat, and put his leg over the parapet. “Hurry with the ropes; I’ll go to him.”
“No, no, not you!” the Vicar cried. “I must.”
But Hugh was already letting himself down. “Quick with the ropes!” was all he said.
