“Ah, Harry,” he said, feebly, “you didn’t know what a miserable reed you had for a friend.”
“Nonsense, man! How are you? Did the blackguard hurt you?”
“No, scarcely at all. I’m weak as a rat. But you!”
“Oh, I’m all right. Only a little skin off my elbows and varnish off my toes. Which way did the brute go?”
“Over the hill yonder,” said Magnus. “Where he may go,” said Artingale, “for hang me if I go after him to-day. Why, confound him, he’s as strong as a bull. I couldn’t have thought a man could be so powerful. But let’s get back, old fellow. Can you walk?”
“Oh yes, I’m better now,” said Magnus feebly; “but I shall never forgive myself for failing you at such a pinch.”
“Never mind the failing, Jemmy: but pinch it was; the blackguard nearly broke my ribs. One moment: let me look down.”
He walked to the edge and looked over the cliff, realising more plainly now the terrible risk he had run, for his escape had been narrow indeed, and in spite of his attempt to preserve his composure, he could not help feeling a peculiar moisture gathering in the palms of his hands. But he laughed it off as he took Magnus’s arm, and drew it through his own, saying,—
“It’s a great blessing, my dear boy, that I took off this coat. It would have been completely spoiled.”
“You had an awfully narrow escape.”