“Where are you!” cried the voice above Humphrey; but still he could not reply. His hands were giving way, and he felt that his whole energy must be devoted to the one effort of clinging to the last ere he was plunged down into that awful gulf.
But the man who clung to him heard the hoarsely-whispered question, and broke out into a wild series of appeals for help—for mercy—for pity.
“For God’s sake, captain!” he yelled, “save me—save me! It was Black Mazzard! He made me come! Do you hear! Help! I can’t hold no longer! I’m falling! Help! Curse you—help!”
As these cries thrilled him through and through, Humphrey was conscious in the darkness that the hands he heard rustling above him and dislodging stones, every fall of which brought forth a shriek from the wretch below, suddenly touched his, and then, as if spasmodically, leaped to his wrists, round which they fastened with a grip like steel.
To Humphrey Armstrong it was all now like one hideous nightmare, during which he suffered, but could do nothing to free himself. The wretch’s shrieks were growing fainter, and he clung in an inert way now, while someone seemed to be muttering above—
“I can do nothing more—I can do nothing more!” but the grip about Humphrey’s wrists tightened, and two arms rested upon his hands and seemed to press them closer to the stones to which they clung.
“Captain—captain! Are you there?”
“Yes,” came from close to Humphrey’s face.
“Forgive me, skipper, and help me up! I’ll be faithful to you! I’ll kill Black Mazzard!”
“I can do nothing,” said the buccaneer, hoarsely. “You are beyond my reach.”