Pressford was now out of sight of his fellow-climber, but in full view of Doris, who had followed the movements of each in turn, with mingled suspense and delight, counting the moments till she should be allowed to make her own essay. Suspense, lest they should decide that the ascent was too hard for a beginner. That was all. She had no thought of fear; and nothing lay farther from her imagination than that either of her companions should come to grief. Two experienced climbers—one of them a practised mountaineer who had scaled without a guide some of the most hazardous peaks in Switzerland!—roped together, in a gully which she herself hoped to go up. The idea would have seemed preposterous. But even a first-class mountaineer is never absolutely ensured against a slip,—still less against the perils of rotten rock. She saw Pressford creep, worming himself along like a snake, over a slab of slanting rock, on which from where she stood no foothold could be detected. His right hand rose stealthily, inch by inch, till it appeared to be at its furthest stretch. For two or three seconds the climber rested thus,—silent, immobile, as a black shadow on the rock. Suddenly there was a spasmodic effort. His hand clutched at a hold six inches beyond reach; and in this act the only firm foothold was perforce abandoned. His fingers closed convulsively on the rocky projection; and in another moment he would have drawn himself up to a safe position. He gripped a shade more firmly. And—like the snapping of a rotten branch, overweighted with winter snow—the rock came away in his clutch. One second he lay prone against the wall, clinging with every muscle of his sinewy frame; the only clear thought in his brain a wild regret that he had trusted to an untested hold. Then he came sliding downward, faster and faster; making vain clutches at the rock to stay his fall,—till, from thirty feet above Maurice, he was brought up sharply thirty feet below, by the rope. And there, to the dismay of Doris, he hung; heavy, motionless, as if without life. CHAPTER XX Only a Girl! THE first intimation of anything wrong, received by Maurice, came in the shape of a shower of stones; and a sharp exclamation from above warned him what to expect. He saw Pressford slide past, vainly trying to check his own rapid descent. And before Maurice had time for more than a lightning-flash of realisation, came the shock—the grip of the rope about his chest and body, almost cutting him in two. It seemed more than he could endure. All his strength was needed to withstand that first overwhelming pull, which tore fiercely at him like a wolf, bringing positive agony. He was unable to breathe save in broken gasps. Half-unconsciously he shifted his position, to ease the intolerable strain. Then, as the pain lessened, he could breathe and think again; and he began to ask himself what had happened. Was Pressford killed—or only stunned—by this fall of some sixty feet on relentless rock?