Bessie clung to his arm and tried to rise, but sank back with a sharp little moan of pain.
“It’s no use,” she gasped. “I can’t stand. You’ll have—to go—and send somebody up—for me.”
She looked so white that he thought she was going to faint. But the little Captain had no idea of giving way, if she could possibly help it.
“Go, please,” she repeated, clutching the rough rim of the rock to control herself.
Rossiter looked around, above, below. Not a living creature was in sight. It was no use to call for help, in that grim solitude. The rain drifted across the black forest in gray columns.
“Won’t you leave me?” pleaded Bessie again.
For reply he stooped, and lifting her in his arms as if she were a child, began to pick his way downward, slowly and cautiously.
At the end of half a dozen rods his breath was gone. He placed his burden gently on the rocks.
“O, Mr. Selborne!” cried Bess, with quivering lips, “it’s hurting you worse than me. Please”—