“The ladder—have you found it?” I called in her ear, close to my lips.
“Yes—yes—let me go!” she panted.
Perhaps other reasons influenced her—perhaps she was even anxious for my safety; but in the perversity of my heart I chose to believe that it was the desire to be free from the hateful clasp of my arms.
Promptly I released her. The rope was still with me, and I held on to that, planting myself firmly against the parapet of the adobe wall, so that I might be in a position to bear a shock should she by any mischance lose her footing.
While I lowered away, unconsciously breathing a prayer of thanks with each yard gained, I became conscious of the fact that the mixed assemblage in the garden had found a new supply of missiles, for all manner of things rattled about me, and several times I was struck quite heavily.
But nothing turned me from my grim determination to carry out my project to the very end. A sigh of relief escaped me when I realized from the sudden slackening of the rope that Hildegarde was safely deposited upon the pavement outside.
Now I could pay attention to my own case.
It was high time.
One of the bold climbers had managed to gain the roof of the toolhouse.
He was just staggering to his feet, and I could see in the faint light from the lanterns carried by those in the gardens, that he wore some sort of gorgeous uniform.