“Come,” he said simply, laying a gentle hand on Don's shoulder, “it is time for us to go.”
“For us!” The words, though kindly meant stabbed Don to the heart.
Kicking the coil of rope before him like a ball, Jack approached the brink of the precipice. The blacks followed. There was little danger of their being missed by the native guard, unless the latter mounted the steps, and this they were not likely to do after the severe lesson they had received in the night. Last of all came Don—slowly, reluctantly. He looked and felt like one going to his execution.
Without a word Jack picked up the loose end of the rope and knotted it securely about his friend's chest, beneath his arms. When he had uncoiled the rope to its full length, he fastened the other end about his own waist. Then he held out his hand.
“Good-bye, old fellow,” he said, his voice shaking in spite of himself. “Good-bye, and God bless you! Be sure and cast the rope loose when you reach the ground.”
“Oh, Jack, Jack! Must I go—must I?” cried Don desperately, his voice full of agony.
With unfaltering step Jack led him to the extreme brink of the cliff, left him there with his face set towards liberty and life, turned back, and beckoning to the blacks—who had purposely been kept in ignorance of Jack's resolve—prepared to pay out the line.
“Over with you, old fellow! As gently as you can!”
The rope tightened. Wheeling where he stood, Don cast one last imploring look at his friend, who pointed upwards and then motioned him to go. He obeyed.