Men came running out, women ran to the windows; there was wild commotion, but no attempt at rescue.
“We can’t help her; she must go over the dam!”
“Throw her a rope—it’s her only chance!”
“Mighty slim chance: she’s too much frightened to catch it. She can’t be saved!”
“She can be saved! Quick! a long, stout rope!”
It was a commanding voice that spoke, a commanding form that stepped forward—the school-master, Harry Thompson. Quickly a rope was placed in his hand.
“Now, three good, strong fellows, follow me!”
He threw off his coat, ran along the bank, winding the rope around his body, and tying it as he ran. Becky was coming down swiftly, when the roar of the dam reached her ears. For the first time she felt her danger. Instantly all power of exertion forsook her. The terrible dam! the jagged rocks beneath! There was death in the thought, and a shrill scream rang over the water.
“Help, help! Don’t let me drown! don’t let me go over the dam!”