Part 47 (1/2)
”We must go back,” says I quietly; ”there is an abyss beside me which we can not cross.”
”Very well,” says she after a moment's pause. ”Tell me when you are ready.”
”We will wait a minute till your strength comes back,” says I, for I felt her fingers quivering, despite my close hold.
”Nay, let us go at once, lest my courage fail,” says she faintly. ”But have a care when you come to the little ledge: it is loose; I felt it slide under my foot.”
”Let me change places, that I may go first,” says I.
”No, no!” cries she in an agony, as I was about to move; ”for Heaven's sake, do not venture down the slope to pa.s.s me--do not leave go of my hand.”
”So be it,” says I; ”but do prythee await till you feel stouter of heart.” And then I tried to restore her confidence by all the means I could; but indeed my own heart quailed within me. For to realize our terrible position, you must fancy yourself standing on the steep roof of the highest cathedral, with no parapet to arrest your fall, and one of the slates so loose that it may slip under your foot, no matter how carefully you step.
”Thank you, Benet,” says my dear lady. ”You have brought my courage back. Come, let us go.”
So with that she begins that backward journey; but now, instead of looking to the rock under my own feet, I was casting my eyes to my dear lady's for that loose rock she had spoken of. Presently I caught sight of it--a great slab that lay on the slope, with no s.p.a.ce behind for a footing, and too wide to step across. And seeing this I sought with an eager fury for some means of stopping our fall if this slab should slide under our feet, but I could spy nothing but a fissure behind the slab, into which I might by chance thrust my arm in falling.
Now scarcely had my eye made this out when my dear lady stepped on the slab, and, to my sickening horror, I perceived it tilt a little, being very nicely poised; and doubtless had I set my foot firmly upon it at that moment, our combined weight would have held it firm and stationary, as it had in pa.s.sing over it before, until it was released of my weight.
But this did not occur to my slow wit at the right time--nay, rather, seeing this movement, I held back, and would have drawn my lady away.
This hesitation (and maybe a little jerk I gave in my terror to her hand) was fatal, for ere I could cry aloud to her the great slab slid, and my dear lady, in striving to keep her balance, lost her footing and fell; then seeing that I was like to be drawn down the slope myself, when nothing in the world could have saved us from sliding with the slab to perdition, I threw myself on my face, and, flinging aside my stick, thrust my arm down that rent in the rock of which I have made mention.
Thus I lay sprawled on that steep incline, half the length of my left arm wedged in the fissure above my head, and my right hand linked to my Lady Biddy's as she lay p.r.o.ne upon the slab.
My sole thought was to hold my dear lady, and this was no slight matter, for the edge of the slab had caught in her waist-belt, so that for a moment she and that great ma.s.s of rock hung, as I may say, on my bent arm. In that moment the bone of my forearm snapped like a dry stick, and indeed I thought my muscles must be torn asunder also, so sharp and strong was the strain upon it; but, thanks be to G.o.d, my lady's belt bursting, the slab slid from beneath her, and so was I relieved of that prodigious weight.
We heard the slab screech as it grated down the slope; then followed an interval of silence, in which one might have counted a score, followed by a great crash as the rock fell upon the crags below, smiting my soul with awe to think how we had surely been hurled down with it to our utter destruction but for a mercy of Providence.
But my arm was powerless to draw myself up, and fearing the torment of it might take away my senses, so that I might let my lady's hand slip, I called to her.
”Cousin,” says I, ”are you hurt sorely?”
”No,” replies she faintly, ”only frightened, Benet.”
”G.o.d be praised!” says I. ”And so do, if you may, roll hither and climb up by my body to the rock above, for I have no strength left.”
And this she did, but with great pain and trouble, for the dear soul trembled in every limb, and was faint from the shock. I helped her as well as I might with my right arm, yet could I do but little for my own sickness. However, she presently got strength from a source which never fails to invigorate such hearts as hers; for, coming as high as my shoulder, she cries:
”Dear Benet, your arm is broken”; and with that she quits my body and starts to her feet, which had she not dared to do under other conditions.
”Nay,” says I, ”take no heed of that, but do place your feet upon that crevice, which will give you a good hold.”
”Ay, surely,” says she, stepping up briskly. ”Now may I help you, my poor Benet; give me your right hand, and have no fear. See how strong I am!”
Indeed, in helping me to my feet she proved herself as l.u.s.ty as any man; and in getting from that horrid slope to a place of safety I owed more to her a hundredfold than she to me.
Of her readiness and tenderness in making a sling to bear my arm; of her gentle, encouraging words as she led the way down the rocks to our cavern, ever choosing the way most direct and least difficult for me; of her thoughtfulness in running forward to fetch me cool water from a spring to sup; of these things, I say, and many others, I have no words to speak, for no words that I know of can do her justice.
CHAPTER LXI.