There was a pause, and then Dale’s voice was heard again:
“Does the rope hurt you much?”
“No.”
“Can you bear it five minutes longer!”
“Yes—a quarter of an hour.”
“Bravo! Wait.”
There was a strange silence then, during which Saxe gazed down below him; but he could see no more than when he had been at the top, only that everything looked blacker and more profound, and that the noise of waters was more plain as it reverberated from the slippery walls.
“What is he doing?” thought Saxe. “I hope he will soon draw me up;” and a momentary feeling of panic came over him, and the rope felt painfully cutting. But just then he caught sight of a dark object against the sky. The dark object seemed to be descending, and the next moment he saw that it was light, and he knew that the lanthorn was being sent down at the end of the string.
“Call to me if the rope hurts you too much,” cried Dale; and to his horror and astonishment Saxe, as he looked up, saw that his companion’s head and shoulders were over the side, and it was as if a black face were looking down at his.
“The rope doesn’t hurt; but—but—is it safe!”