I did not sleep again. I lay listening to the Bo's'n's snores and the Smith's groans, and wondered when day would break.
I had been lying wide awake for perhaps an hour when I again heard Cynthia's voice. These were the words that she said:
"Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!" she called; "I don't know where to put my foot. I can't find any place to put my foot."
I arose hastily at her first word. There was now a very faint streak of light in the east, a dull light which betokened a gloomy day. I could, however, see enough to walk safely, though it was like the dusk of a summer evening at home. I groped my way toward where I heard her voice. As I approached her retreat, I heard her call again:
"I don't know where to put my foot!"
I had my suspicion of what the matter might be. I struck my flint, and just in time for myself, for I found that I had come to a halt upon the edge of an open abyss of perhaps ten or twelve feet in width. The small crack which we had crossed with such unconcern had been the weak spot of our structure. The earthquake had torn out a mass of rock and had left Cynthia and Lacelle upon the other side, entirely isolated from the rest of us. The light increased now with every moment, and I saw to my horror that Cynthia was standing on the very edge of the chasm. She had one arm round a young tree and one foot close to its base. With the other foot she was feeling down the side of the chasm, endeavouring to find a foothold. Her fine hair was hanging down over her shoulders, her eyes were wide and staring, and as she felt—felt—felt—with the toe of her poor worn shoe, my heart stopped beating, I am sure, for a few seconds. I knew not what to do. The chasm was too great for me to leap, for she stood some feet above me. I did not dare to speak. My God! if there was ever a worse moment in any man's life, I should like to hear of it.
Again she called:
"Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! do come and help me. I can't find any place to put my foot."
