“Well,” he decided, “there’s a crack some way up that should give me a hold, and a bit of a projection you could rest a foot on yonder. Then if you gave me one hand, I could lower you down.”
He came up, thrusting his fingers into a fissure near the summit and finding a tiny support for his toes. Lowering herself cautiously, she clutched the hand he extended.
“Now,” he cautioned, “as gently as possible!”
Loosing her hold above, she hung for a moment or two, half afraid to let go his hand, while his arm and body grew tense with the strain and she could hear his labored breath. Summoning her courage she relaxed her grasp. In another second she was safe upon the ledge, and, scrambling down, he stood beside her with a set, flushed face, the veins protruding on his forehead.
“I’m glad that’s over; I was badly scared,” he acknowledged.
She thrilled at the confession, though she thought there had been no serious risk; his concern for her safety was strangely pleasant and the strenuous grasp of his fingers had stirred her.
“Oh,” she replied, “I believe I was quite safe after you got hold of me.”
He glanced at the steep face of broken rock that ran down into the shadow.
“If we’d gone over, we might not have brought up for a while,” he said. “But what’s that resting on yonder jutting stone?”
“I’m sorry it’s my sketch-book,” Millicent answered unguardedly. “It’s nearly filled.”