So distinctly did my powerful binoculars bring the station into range that I could even see the younger officer light a match, which the wind extinguished, light another, and presently blow a tiny cloud of smoke from his cigar.
The Countess de Vassart had come up to where I was standing on the gargoyle, balanced over the gulf below. Very cautiously I began to step backward, for there was not room to turn around.
“Would you care to look at the Pigeonnier, madame?” I asked, glancing at her over my shoulder.
“I beg you will be careful,” she said. “It is a useless risk to stand out there.”
I had never known the dread of great heights which many people feel, and I laughed and stepped backward, expecting to land on the parapet behind me. But the point of my scabbard struck against the battlements, 45 forcing me outward; I stumbled, staggered, and swayed a moment, striving desperately to recover my balance; I felt my gloved fingers slipping along the smooth face of the parapet, my knees gave way with horror; then my fingers clutched something—an arm—and I swung back, slap against the parapet, hanging to that arm with all my weight. A terrible effort and I planted my boots on the leads and looked up with sick eyes into the eyes of the Countess.
“Can you stand it?” I groaned, clutching her arm with my other hand.
“Yes—don’t be afraid,” she said, calmly. “Draw me toward you; I cannot draw you over.”
“Press your knees against the battlements,” I gasped.
She bent one knee and wedged it into a niche.
“Don’t be afraid; you are not hurting me,” she said, with a ghastly smile.