His hand grasped the garments, and the long-drawn breath that heaved the chest of every watcher above told how intense was the excitement, how terrible had been the suspense of the last few moments.
Gently, cautiously, Clifford drew the still, little form toward him until he could encircle it with his strong arm, and then he slowly retraced his way along that slender stem.
It was a perilous task, but the ropes were reached at last, and again he paused to rest, while he bent a tender, anxious face over the inanimate burden now clasped close to his breast, and placed a hand over the little heart.
He detected slight pulsations there, and gave a reassuring nod to those who were keeping such anxious vigil above.
At last he placed the child within the pouch which he had made of the sheet, swung it gently around upon his back, and secured the loose corners about his waist to prevent his burden from swaying away from his body, and then he was ready for the ascent.
Full one hundred feet he must climb that perpendicular strand with that precious little form upon his back.
Would he be able to accomplish the task? He did not presume to answer the question as it flashed through his brain; he put the thought quickly away from him almost before it had taken form.
But his brave heart never faltered in his purpose as he resolutely grasped the rope and lifted himself from the supporting maple.
But who shall describe the agony of suspense that tortured the hearts of those who were lying, face downward, upon the edge of the cliff, and watching the struggle for life.
Philip Wentworth could not endure it, and knowing that there was now plenty of help upon the ground, he retreated, faint and sick, from his position by the oak to the boulder where Gertrude was sitting, and waited in speechless anguish for the end.