For a few moments Max Blande stood as if petrified, and those moments were like an hour, while the thought flashed through him of what must be going on below, where he seemed to see Kenneth gazing down in horror at the shapeless form of Scoodrach lying unrecognisable on the rocks below.
All feeling of dread on his own behalf was gone now; and, as soon as the first shock was over, he tore himself free of the snake-like rope, and stepped to the edge of the cliff, to gaze down with dilated eyes.
“Well, you’ve done it now!” saluted him as he strained over the edge to look below, where Kenneth, instead of looking down, was looking up, while Scood was lying on the shelf of rock, rubbing himself with a hand that was bleeding freely.
“Is—is he killed?” faltered Max, whose lips formed the question he had been about to ask before he saw the gillie lying there.
“Do you hear, Scood? Are you killed?” said Kenneth coolly.
“Is she kilt? Na, she isna kilt,” cried Scoodrach, with a savage snarl, which was answered by a furious fit of barking from the terrier, as he too looked down. “Hech, but this is the hartest stane! She’s gien hersel’ a dreadful ding.”
“Then you are both safe?” cried Max joyfully.
“Oh yes, quite safe, Max. Locked up tight. Did you cut the rope?”
“Cut the rope? No, I didn’t touch it. Why did it break?”
“I say, Scoody, why did the rope break?”