It had been an anxious and sad night for those on the hill. They could until sunset see the wretched Conal in that darksome crevasse, and they did all they could do, for they made up a bundle of rugs with plenty of provisions enclosed and hurled it down.
Strangely enough, he could talk to those on the hillside, and they to him, without elevating their voices.
They bade him be of good cheer, for signals from the Flora told them that preparations for rescue were already being made.
Frank's march across the great snow plains was a forced one, but an hour's rest and a good meal was indispensable before the ascent could be attempted.
Perhaps no mountain was ever climbed more speedily by men in any country. They had the trail of the captain and his party to guide them, but nevertheless the work was arduous in the extreme.
Should they be in time?
Or was Conal dead?
These were the questions that they asked each other over and over again.
They hoped against hope, however, as brave men ever do.