“Then the sooner we start down, the better,” said Jim Airth. “I’m going first.” He was over the edge before Myra could open her lips to expostulate. “Now turn round. Hold on to the ledge firmly with your hands, and give me your feet. Do you hear? Do as I tell you. Don’t hesitate. It is less steep than it seemed yesterday. We are quite safe. Come on!... That’s right.”
Then Lady Ingleby passed through a most terrifying five minutes, while she yielded in blind obedience to the strong hands beneath her, and the big voice which encouraged and threatened alternately.
But when the descent was over and she stood on the shore beside Jim Airth; when together they turned and looked in silence up the path of glory on the rippling waters, to the blazing beauty of the rising sun, thankful tears rushed to Lady Ingleby’s eyes.
“Oh, Jim,” she exclaimed, “God is good! It is so wonderful to be alive!”
Then Jim Airth turned, his face transfigured, the sunlight in his eyes, and opened his arms. “Myra,” he said. “We have found the Best.”
They walked along the shore, and up the steep street of the sleeping village, hand in hand like happy children.
Arrived at the Moorhead Inn, they pushed open the garden gate, and stepped noiselessly across the sunlit lawn.
The front door was firmly bolted. Jim Airth slipped round to the back, but returned in a minute shaking his head. Then he felt in his pocket for the big knife which had served them so well; pushed back the catch of the coffee-room window; softly raised the sash; swung one leg over, and drew Myra in after him.
Once in the familiar room, with its mustard-pots and salt-cellars, its table-cloths, left on in readiness for breakfast, they both lapsed into fits of uncontrollable laughter; laughter the more overwhelming, because it had to be silent.