While the long minutes went by, a voice kept calling up from below; calling, calling, at first eagerly, then anxiously, then with terror. By and by the bundle of life stirred, took shape, raised itself, and was changed into a man again, a thinking, conscious being, who now understood the meaning of this sound coming up from the earth below—or was it the sea? A human voice had at last pierced the awful exhaustion of the deadly labour, the peril and strife, which had numbed the brain while the body, in its instinct for existence, still clung to the rocky ledges. It had called the man back to earth—he was no longer a great animal, and the rock a monster with skin and scales of stone.
“Ranulph! Maitre Ranulph! Ah, Ranulph!” called the voice.
Now he knew, and he answered down: “All right, all right, garche Carterette!”
“Are you at the top?”
“No, but the rest is easy.”
“Hurry, hurry, Ranulph. If they should come before you reach the top!”
“I’ll soon be there.”
“Are you hurt, Ranulph?”
“No, but my fingers are in rags. I am going now. A bi’tot, Carterette!”
“Ranulph!”