A light! a number of lights. They're moving—moving up. They've reached the spot where we met the shepherd who told us of the two ways.
They've stopped. Hark! What's that?
A shout—a hail—loud and long continued, as though a lot of people are calling together.
Hurrah! We're saved. The farmer has turned out a rescue party to find and save us. Hurrah!
Gathering all my strength—all I have left—I answer the hail. Smith joins me as well as he can. Once, twice, thrice we shout. We catch the distant cry that tells us we have been heard.
For a minute the lights are stationary. Then—their bearers sending up another great hail as though to tell us they know where we are and are coming—we see the lanterns flashing forward up the track which leads above our heads, and then round to the Eagles' Home. Mr. Griffiths, who knows the hills as well as he knows his own farm lands, has told them where we are from the direction of our frantic voices.
So cheer up, Smith—they're coming.
But they'll be such a long time coming—and we're so cold and numbed. Smith is fainting again. So am I, I'm afraid—you must remember I am knocked about. It will be such a long time before the coming help reaches us.
Will it? Then what's that solitary light stealing up the jagged steep below us? Who is it coming to us by the "hard" way, straight up the precipitous mountain-side? It must be Griffiths—he's crawling up the rough boulders—he's clinging hold of roots and branches, swinging himself over the clefts. The shepherd said it couldn't be done—but Griffiths is doing it. How torn his hands must be!
I can't be quite fainting, because I can see that Griffiths' lantern is coming nearer and nearer.