Watt went down nimbly yet cautiously, clinging to ivy and tufts of grass, feeling every projection, and trying with his foot before trusting his weight to it. He did not hurry himself. He did not regard those who watched his advance. His descent was in zigzags. He crept along ledges, found a cleft or a step of stone, or a tuft of heather, or a stem of ivy. All at once he grasped the lantern.
‘I see something! Oh, Jasper, what can it be!’ gasped Barbara.
‘Be careful,’ he said; ‘do not overbalance yourself.’
‘I have found her,’ shouted Watt; ‘only her—not him.’
‘God be praised!’ whispered Barbara.
‘Is she alive?’ called Jasper.
‘I do not know, I do not care. Martin is not here.’
‘Now,’ said Jasper, ‘come on, you men—that is, all but one. We must go below; not over the cliff, but round through the coppice. We can find our way to the lantern. The boy must be at the bottom. She has fallen,’ he addressed Barbara now, ‘she has fallen, I trust, among bushes of oak which have broken the force of the fall. Do not be discouraged. Trust in God. Stay here and pray.’
‘Oh, Jasper, I cannot! I must go with you.’