Winefred stood aside panting. She had been heated by climbing, but now she turned cold; all her nerves tingled as though she had been whipped with nettles.
'You must have a rope round your waist, Jack,' said one of the lads.
'No, thank you, it would encumber me. I must be free. It is not so bad. I shall not swing but cling to the rocks and work myself down and along with my hands. I shall sit astride on the pole and have a crook to help me along.'
Words of renewed entreaty to desist rose to Winefred's lips, but she could not speak them, and she knew that further remonstrance was profitless. Jack threw a bag across his shoulder, and bound it about his waist.
He stepped to the edge, cast himself flat on the turf and looked over. The end of the rope, attached to the middle of a short pole, swung in space.
'All right, lads,' said he, and slipped over the verge.
Winefred's heart rose, and her head swam, as she saw him disappear. As he went, he looked at her and smiled.
Should the rope give way, should he lose his balance on the crosspole, there was for him a sheer fall of over four hundred feet.
Below were broken masses of rock, fallen from above, about which the sea chafed and frothed, and among which it burrowed.
The cable was strong; it was passed twice round the trunk of the thorn, and was held fast by two lusty youths, who paid out gradually, as required. One of them, turning his head over his shoulder, said to the girl, 'Go below, missie, and see how he manages.'