For a moment he disappeared behind a protruding mass, then he re-emerged, creeping like a fly. Now he stood balancing himself on a ledge so narrow as to be imperceptible from below, and seemed to be studying what looked like a smooth wall along which he purposed to advance by clinging.
A profile of rock stood out that bore a resemblance to George III. This the climber had to circumvent, but he was slow in accomplishing his work.
He penetrated into every recess, searching among the nests of the sea-birds—so it seemed to Winefred, and so only could she account for the delay and his occasional disappearances. Then, if too much cord had been let out, he was constrained to gather it up as he crawled farther till it was again taut.
He was on the chin of King George, groping in the jaw for some hollow into which he could insert a foot, some nodule sufficiently firm to which he could hold. Now he was plastered against His Majesty's cheek, sliding towards the ear.
Then down came a hail of dislodged flints and a snow shower of chalk, as Jack slipped.
Next moment a scud of vapour swept past and blotted out the summit of the cliff.
Winefred had her knuckles pressed into her mouth to check the cry that she could not otherwise restrain, or the gasp that accompanied every venturesome movement of the climber.
When the fog passed away she saw him again. He had reached a green ledge where grew samphire. She wondered what he was about. She could see that he was shaking the cord. This was passed over projecting ribs of rock overhead. Clearly at last she made out that he needed more of the rope to be let out. He was on a terrace that ran in under arches of rock, and there doubtless nests abounded.
But the line was entangled by the rock over which it passed, and so strained that no amount of shaking would communicate a signal to those above.