When he had reached the bough he suddenly sprang upon it, and laid his hand upon her arm. His grip was like iron. Mary screamed aloud; she had not feared death, but she was terrified of George Williams.
He held her firmly as they sat; her strained nerves were beginning to give way, and her determination to flutter to the ground like a piece of paper hurled into the air. She looked round despairingly.
“Put your feet up on the bough, girl,” he said sternly.
“I can’t,” she faltered.
They were sitting upon it side by side, more like a pair of children on a gate, than a man and woman with the shadow of death between them. He was holding her fast with his left hand, but he loosened his grip, and put his arm firmly about her.
“Do as I bid ye,” he said, very quietly. “Turn sideways with your back to me and lean against me.”
She obeyed.
“Now put your feet up on the bough. Gently, mind.”
She drew them up with some difficulty till they rested upon it before her; a piece of the rope lay across the wood near the fork.
“Sit still!” he cried, holding her in a vice.