The fancy was so horribly vivid that he shivered as if from a cold wind passing over him, while all the time he was bathed with perspiration.
The old dread of slipping from the narrow ledge upon which he lay came back, and with a terrible feeling of despair he waited for the moment when he would again be falling swiftly through the air to share the fate of his mount.
He had just reached this point when, sounding rather faint and distant but perfectly clear, he heard a familiar voice calling him by name.
But in his state of painful agitation he could make no reply, only lie motionless and ready to ask himself whether he had not conjured up the call himself.
But it was no fancy! It was his father’s voice, sounding as if sent forth with a great effort between hands held on either side of the speaker’s lips.
“Chris! Chris!” And perfectly clearly now a repetition of the words in a husky whisper from somewhere close at hand.
The Indians were above him, he knew, and it was like telling them exactly where he lay; but the boy felt that at all risks he must reply, and bending over a little so as to direct his voice downwards, he shouted—
“Ahoy! Here!”
Ahoy! Here!
The softly-whispered echo of the cry, not from close at hand, but from the face of the cliff far away.