There was a fascination in the scene that held them breathless, and as Cynthia’s hand glided into his, and clung to him convulsively, Artingale felt the little palm grow wet and cold.
It was a most daring proceeding, and such as none but the most reckless would have attempted; but the man seemed to be coolly climbing on, apparently without effort, though every here and there he had to cling to the face of the rock, and remain motionless, as if to gather breath.
“By George!” exclaimed Artingale at last, as the man climbed nearer and nearer to where the grass was just visible on the topmost edge, “he’s a plucky fellow, Cynthy. I wouldn’t do that for a good deal.”
“But, Harry—don’t you see—don’t you see?”
“Only that he is close to the top, dear. There, don’t look if it makes you giddy. I’ll tell you. He’s close up now, and he has got hold of the grass and stuff. Now he’s over the top edge. He’s safe enough. And, yes—there, you can look up now. He’s all right, and out of sight.”
“But, Harry, Harry,” panted Cynthia, “didn’t you see? It was that man.”
“What man?”
“The man who follows poor Julie.”
“By Jove!” cried Artingale; and he started as if to try and follow the man up the cliff.
“No, no,” cried Cynthia, clinging to him; “don’t leave me, Harry, don’t try to climb that dreadful cliff; come and find poor Julie. Oh, Harry, why did we go away?”