“Dean, old fellow! Here, I say, speak! Where are you?”
“Down here somewhere.—Ugh! It is black and cold.”
“Well, climb up again. I am reaching down and holding out my hand. Catch hold.”
“I can’t reach,” came back, in a husky voice, “and I am afraid.”
“Don’t say afraid!” cried Mark angrily. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I have hurt my ankle, Mark, and it gives way under me. Oh, why did we come here!”
“Don’t talk like that. Here, I’ll get back out of this and go and fetch father and the doctor and the others, and we will carry you back.”
“No, no, Mark; I am sick and faint. Don’t—pray don’t go and leave me. I am afraid I am a horrible coward, but if you leave me alone here in this dreadful place, and like this, I don’t think I could bear it.”
“Oh, nonsense! You are only in a sort of split in the rocks. Be a man. I must go for help; it’s no use to shout.”
“No, no,” said Dean, in a hoarse whisper; “don’t—pray don’t shout.”