But when Oliver’s body struck the rock that projected from the decline, the blow caused it to bound several feet out of its course, and in doing this he was hurled directly into the branches of a short and stout fir-tree.
By this time consciousness had forsaken him, and his body hung among the branches, a limp, inanimate mass.
“My heavens! the boy will be killed!” cried Mr. Whyland, who was the first to recover from the awfulness of the situation.
“It’s a bad tumble,” replied Cottle, shaking his head.
As for Gus he could not say a word. Suppose Oliver was killed? The very thought sent shiver after shiver through his frame.
“We must hurry down to him somehow,” went on Mr. Whyland; “how can it be done?”
“I think there is a path a little way ahead,” replied the guide. “Come, we will dismount and see.”
His directions were instantly followed. Sure enough, a little distance farther there was a break where a tiny watercourse led to the river below.
It did not take them long to reach the bottom of the ravine, and once down there they hurried back with all possible speed.
“He must have come down somewhere about here,” said Cottle, as he came to a halt; “but I don’t see anything of him.”