"Hasten!" shouted the Russian. "The ice—it is cracking. If I go, tell my comrades I tried to do my duty."
Leslie stood stock still. He had but another twenty yards to go to get clear of the dangerous ice-bridge, but the self-sacrificing spirit of his companion banished his own fears.
"Take hold of the rope again!" he exclaimed. "Lie down if you will. I will pull you across."
"Agreed," replied Petrovitch, but without attempting to pass the bowline over his shoulders, he contented himself by merely holding on with his hands.
The lad moved forward. With little difficulty the Russian's huge bulk slid over the ice. Again there was an ominous creak. The strain on the rope was suddenly released, and, taken aback, Leslie slipped and fell flat on his face.
Quickly he regained his feet, fully expecting to find that his companion had vanished into that awful abyss. Petrovitch, too, had expected the catastrophe, and rather than put the English lad in any danger, he had released his hold on the rope without warning.
Leslie was safe now, but the rope had recoiled with the sudden relaxation of the strain, and the end was ten feet from the Russian.
With the ice creaking and groaning as he moved, Petrovitch crawled slowly towards the rope. Leslie could see the surface bending under his weight as he advanced inch by inch. The suspense was nerve-racking.
At length Petrovitch retrieved the rope. Leslie immediately walked away, hauling steadily the while, until the Russian was safely dragged to the firm ground on the other side of the chasm.
Spontaneously the English lad and the Russian giant held out their hands. Not a word was spoken, but the firm grip was a sufficient testimony to their appreciation of each other's devotion.