She moved to the end of the verandah. The great rope-like stems were twined and twisted together, and spread out in all directions. She looked at her hands, delicate and soft, and mentally asked herself if she had strength of arm and wrist sufficient for the task.
Fear lends strength, as it gives wings, and even a woman, situated as Flora was, will perform deeds that, under ordinary circumstances, would seem impossible.
It was the sole chance, and she must avail herself of it. She hesitated no longer; but mounting the railing of the verandah, grasped firmly a thick stem of the ivy, and swung herself over.
It was an awful moment. The failure of the power of the arms, the slightest giddiness, and a fall of fifty feet would close the book of life for ever. But after the first nervous dread had passed, she found that the descent was far easier than she had imagined.
The rough angles of the walls, and the thick ivy, gave her tolerable foothold. But now and again her weight dragged the stems from their hold of the wall, and she would slip down a little way with a jerk that sent the blood back upon her heart with a rush.
It was hard work; it was a struggle for life—a life that, a few minutes ago, she would have sacrificed, for then all hope seemed to have gone. But since then the star had risen a little once more, by reason of the pain-wrung cry of a human sufferer.
She struggled with desperate energy to save that life. Lower and lower she went. It seemed as if she would never reach the goal.
The ivy ripped and gave way, painfully straining and jerking her arms, and the rough stones lacerated and tore her hands. But there was no giving up until she reached the wished-for point.
She clung desperately—she struggled bravely, and the reward came at last—she was abreast of the lower verandah! She got a foothold, then clutched the railing, and, in a few moments, stood on the floor, breathless and exhausted, but safe so far.