The strain on the rope was firm and steady, as Gwyn drew a deep breath, forced the knife point steadily through beneath the silk, raised the edge of the blade a little more and a little more, and then, in an agony of despair, just as he was about to give one bold thrust, he let go, and snatched at the ladder side.
For all at once there was a sharp, scraping sound. The silk, which had been strained like a fiddle-string over a bridge, parted on the edge of the keen knife, and, as Joe’s arms dropped quite nerveless and inert, down went the knife, and Gwyn felt that he was going after.
For in those brief moments he seemed to be falling fast.
But he was not moving; it was Joe being drawn upward, and the next minute Gwyn was clinging with his breast now on the spells of the ladder, against which he was being pressed, Hardock, with a rapid movement, having forced himself up so as to occupy the same position as Gwyn had so lately held with respect to Joe.
“He’s all right—if your knots hold,” said Hardock, softly. “How is it with you, my lad?”
“Out of breath, that’s all. I can’t look, though, now, Sam. Watch and see if he goes up all right.”
“No need, my lad,” said the man, bitterly. “We should soon know if he came down. Come, hold up your chin, and show your pluck. There’s nothing to mind now. Why, you’re all of a tremble.”
“Yes; it isn’t that I feel frightened now,” said the boy; “but all the muscles in my legs and arms are as if they were trembling and jerking.”
“’Nough to make ’em,” growled Hardock. “Never mind, the rope’ll soon be down again—yes, they’ve got him, and they’re letting another down. I’ll soon have you fast and send you up.”
“No, you won’t, Sam,” said Gwyn, who was rapidly recovering his balance. “I haven’t forgotten the last knot you made round me.”