The men looked at one another, but all remained silent. One of them stepped to the edge, looked down, then turned around, shrugged his shoulders, and went away.
"If we were only sure that she is still alive," said another. "But a man risks his life and perhaps only to bring back a dead child."
"Who knows that she is not alive?" cried Herr Feland, almost beside himself, "and if she stirs she is lost beyond recovery! Oh, is it not possible?"
"She would have gone down below long before this if she was still alive. No one could lie as still as that," said another. "And, sir, if one should roll down there, the best reward would be of no use."
Shrugging their shoulders, one after another stepped back. Herr Feland looked around him in despair. There was no prospect of help.
"I will do it myself," he exclaimed, beside himself; "only tell me how?"
Martin now stepped up to him.
"No, sir," he said quietly, "that will not do. Then both would be lost, that is sure. But I will do it, with God's help. I, too, have such little ones, and I know how hard it must be for Herr Feland."
Even before he spoke he had fastened the big rope around the trunk of the old fir-tree, for he had decided to bring up the child to her father, whether she was dead or alive. Then he took off his cap, prayed softly, seized firm hold of the rope, and slid down the rock.
He reached the little shelf in the rock. With one hand he held to the rope with all his strength, with his bare feet he tried to cling fast to the rock, in order to be able to seize the child with his other hand and lift her up. Gently, quietly, he drew near, for if the child was alive and should be startled by him—just a quick movement—even at the last moment she would be lost.