Through fifty or sixty feet of height each word dinned mercilessly into his ears. He was sorely exercised. How to consent, he did not know; yet what else to do, he did not know either. Had Doris been a man, that which she suggested would have been the only right plan. But to allow her to risk her life—and he knew it must mean no ordinary risk!—the whole being of the young surgeon cried out in protest. It would have been out of the question with any girl, he told himself. How much more with her! He pictured the awfulness of what must follow a slip on her part. No rope would hold her up. She would fall to the snow-ledge whence she had started, and with such impetus that she would not stop there, but would roll and bound down the snow-slope and over the rocks below. And he, tied to his helpless friend, would be unable to stir a finger to save his love from a terrible death. Had he doubted the fact before, he knew in this hour that she was his love—the one woman in the world for him. And he would have to look on—to see it all! The horror of that thought went beyond endurance. Yet more—he saw himself, somehow rescued, going to the hotel, to make known what had happened; wandering over the heights, in search for her crushed and mangled body. He saw what her friends would think, when he and Pressford returned; and only the young girl in their charge was missing! Impossible! "No! No! You must not," he repeated. "I can't allow it. Could you find your way down the mountain, and send help?" She surveyed the long steep slope, which they had mounted, and shook her head. "No!" she called, a thrill of fresh resolution in her voice. "It would mean hours and hours. And I might miss my way. You could not hold him all that time." "Yes, I could." "No. You must let me climb. That is the only thing to be done." He set his teeth and groaned, before replying—"I will not have it. I can't allow it, Doris." The name slipped out unconsciously, and it sent a glow through her. "But he has to be saved. He must be saved. And there's no other way," she cried in terse phrases. "You must let me try." Then, as he still refused,—"But if it is my duty! You will not keep me from doing my duty!" He had at length to give in. Pressford showed no signs of returning sense; and Doris's insistence swept aside his opposition. He began to realise that, if he refused consent, she would come without his consent. He doubted, too, whether to attempt the long descent of the mountain alone would mean for her less peril. She would have to go unroped, feeling anxious, distressed, hurried. The tax to nerve and strength would last through hours; and he would not be at hand to lend encouragement. For awhile still he held out; but at last, with a deadly sinking of heart, he was impelled to yield. "But you must be very careful—very slow—" he urged. "Make sure of each hold before you leave the last. And if you find it too much, turn back at once."