For an instant she hung there. He could hear a scream rising in her throat.
Jarl Corvett died a thousand deaths.
Then out she swung, high over the chasm. Instinctively, her hands shot out ... caught the Fantay spire's low-dipping edge ... clung there....
He said tightly: "Pull yourself up! I'll help you!" Bracing himself, straining every muscle, he lifted her higher ... higher ... till her feet were at arm's length above his head.
Panting, crying, she pulled herself half onto the spire.
He let go her feet.
She gasped in new panic. But her grip held firm. Twisting, spasmodically, she swung her feet up and lay there, sobbing.
Jarl's muscles went weak as water.
But he did not dare to hesitate. Stiffly, he swung onto the knee-high coping; crouched there.
The chasm below drew his eyes like a magnet. He tore them away; forced himself to look up, instead, to the spire. Sucking in air, he poised himself, tensing.