“There, there—don’t be frighted,” said Giles; “those be’ant no ghosts, but they be just our own shadows on the mist. It’s a queer thing, but I’ve seen it often and often on these hills, and some scholards have told me as how that kind of thing be’ant uncommon on mountains.”
“What a goose I was to be so horribly frightened,” said Walter; “but I didn’t know that there were any spectres of that sort on Appenfell. All right, Giles; go on.”
Till Walter and the shepherd had taken their last step from the Devil’s Way on to the side of Appenfell, the boys stood watching them in intense silence; but no sooner were they safe, than Power and Kenrick ran up to Walter, poured out their eager thanks, and pressed his hands in all the fervour of affectionate gratitude. They felt that his courage and readiness had, at the risk of his own life, saved them from such a danger as they had never in their lives experienced before. Already they were suffering with hunger and shuddering with the December air, their limbs felt quite benumbed, their teeth were chattering lugubriously, and their faces were blue and pinched with cold. They eagerly devoured the brown bread and potato-cake which the man had brought, and let him and Walter chafe a little life into their shivering-bodies. By this time fear was sufficiently removed to enable them to feel some sort of appreciation of the wild beauty of the scene, as the moonlight pierced on their left the flitting scuds of restless mist, and on their right fell softly over Bardlyn hill, making a weird contrast between the tender brightness of the places where it fell, and the pitchy gloom that hid the depths of the rift, and brooded in those undefined hollows over which the precipices leaned.
To return down Appenfell was (the experienced shepherd informed them) quite hopeless. In such a mist as that, which might last for an indefinite time, even he would be totally unable to find his way. But now that they were warm and satisfied with food, and confident of safety, they even enjoyed the feeling of adventure when Giles tied them together for their return across the Devil’s Way. First he tied the rope round his own waist, then round Power’s and Kenrick’s, and finally, as there was not enough left to go round Walter’s waist, he tied the end round his right arm. Thus fastened, all danger was tenfold diminished, if not wholly removed, and the two unaccustomed boys felt a happy reliance on the nerve and experience of Giles and Walter, who were in front and rear. It was a scene which they never forgot, as the four went step by step through the moonlight along the horrible ledge, safe only in each other’s help, and awe-struck at their position, not daring to glance aside or to watch the colossal grandeur of their own shadows as they were flung here and there against some protruding rock. Power was next to Walter, and when they reached the spot beneath which the whiteness glinted and the rags fluttered in the wind, Walter, in spite of himself, could not help glancing down, and whispering “Look!” in a voice of awe. Power unhappily did look, and as all the boys at Saint Winifred’s were familiar with the story of the shepherd’s fate, and had even known the man himself, Power at once was seized with the same nervous horror which had agitated Walter—grew dizzy, stumbled, and slipped down, jerking Kenrick to his knees by the sudden strain of the rope. Happily the rope checked Power’s fall, and Kenrick’s scream of horror startled Giles, who, without losing his presence of mind, instantly seized Kenrick with an arm that seemed as strong and inflexible as if it had been hammered out of iron, while at the same moment Walter, conscious of his rashness, clutched hold of Power’s hand and raised him up. No word was spoken, but after this the boys kept close to their guides, who were ready to grasp them tight at the first indication of an uneven footstep, and who almost lifted them bodily over every more difficult or slippery part. The time seemed very long to them, but at last they had all reached Bardlyn hill in safety, and placed the last step they ever meant to place on the narrow and dizzy passage of the Razor’s edge.
And stopping there they looked back at the dangers they had passed—at Appenfell piled up to heaven with white clouds; at Bardlyn rift looming in black abysses beneath them; at the thin broken line of the Devil’s Way. They looked:
“As a man with difficult short breath,
Forespent with toiling, ’scaped from sea to shore
Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands
At gaze.”
They stood silent till Power said, in ejaculations of intense emphasis, “Thank God!”—and then pointing downwards with a shudder, “Oh, Walter!” and then once again, “Thank God!”—which Walter and Kenrick echoed; and then they passed on without another word. But those two words, so uttered, were enough.
The man, who was more than repaid by the sense that he had rendered them a most important aid, and who had been greatly fascinated by their manly bearing, entirely refused to take any money in payment for what he had done.
“Nay, nay,” he said; “we poor folks are proud too, and I won’t have none of your money, young gentlemen. But let me tell you that you’ve had a very narrow escape of your lives out there, and I don’t doubt you’ll thank the good God for it with all your hearts this night; and if you’ll just say a prayer for old Giles, too, he’ll vally it more than all your monies. So now, good-night to you, young gentlemen, for you know your way now easy enough. And if ever you come this way again, maybe you’ll come in and have a chat for remembrance sake.”
“Thank you, Giles, that we will,” said the boys.