| “And—keep our bones—from— Davy Jones—who e’er he be,” |
quavered Lady Ingleby, making one final effort to move up into the vacant niches, though conscious that her fingers and toes were so numb that she could not feel them grip the sand.
Then Jim Airth’s whole body vanished suddenly from above her, as he drew himself on to the ledge.
“Yeo ho! we go!” Came his gay voice from above.
| “Yeo ho! Yeo ho!” |
sang Lady Ingleby, in a faint whisper.
She could not move on into the empty niches. She could only remain where she was, clinging to the face of the cliff.
She suddenly thought of a fly on a wall; and remembered a particular fly, years ago, on her nursery wall. She had followed its ascent with a small interested finger, and her nurse had come by with a duster, and saying: “Nasty thing!” had ruthlessly flicked it off. The fly had fallen—fallen dead, on the nursery carpet.... Lady Ingleby felt she too was falling. She gave one agonised glance upward to the towering cliff, with the line of sky above it. Then everything swayed and rocked. “A mother of soldiers,” her brain insisted, “must fall without screaming.” Then—A long arm shot down from above; a strong hand gripped her firmly.
“One step more,” said Jim Airth’s voice, close to her ear, “and I can lift you.”
She made the effort, and he drew her on to the ledge beside him.