“Now you stay right where you are,” he ordered again. “And hang on as tight as you can. I'm coming down.”
Come down he did, swinging over the brink with his face to the bank, dropping on his toes to the upper edge of the slope and digging boots and fingers into the clay to prevent sliding further.
“Hang on!” he cautioned, over his shoulder. “I'll be there in a second. There! Now wait until I get my feet braced. Now give me your hand—your left hand. Hold on with your right.”
Slowly and cautiously, clinging to his hand, he pulled her away from the edge of the precipice and helped her to scramble up to where he clung. There she lay and panted. He looked at her apprehensively.
“Don't go and faint now, or any foolishness like that,” he ordered sharply.
“No, no, I won't. I'll try not to. But how are we ever going to climb up—up there?”
Above them and at least four feet out of reach, even if they stood up, and that would be a frightfully risky proceeding, the sod projected over their heads like the eaves of a house.
Helen glanced up at it and shuddered.
“Oh, how CAN we?” she gasped.
“We can't. And we won't try.”