"Yes, yes," she cried. "I'll be so careful. I promise." For three seconds she stood motionless, praying one short vehement prayer for help,—entreating that she might be kept calm and steady and sure of foot; that she might be able to carry out what she had to do. She did not under-estimate the nature of the task before her. That it was both difficult and dangerous, a task which under ordinary conditions she would not have dreamt of doing, she knew well; and she realised also that the lives of these two men depended, in all probability, upon her exertions. Maurice would never abandon his friend. If no casual passer-by came to their rescue,—a most unlikely event,—and if Pressford did not regain consciousness, then, but for her, both were doomed. Without further delay, and with every muscle braced to firmness, she set out upon her perilous emprise. Although, as said earlier by Maurice, she was a born climber, her experience had been limited, and this was a severe test. The steepness of the gully, the paucity of good holds, the general slipperiness, the patches of verglas to be avoided—all demanded skill and nerve. And she knew, hardly less distinctly than Maurice himself, what a slip must mean. Step by step she advanced, placing each foot with caution, testing each hold before she trusted to it! Maurice from above, spoke an occasional quiet word, when he could see what she was doing. When he could not, he lived through sickening agonies. A vision floated before his eyes of a false step on her part, and then of that fearful bounding fall down and down the mountain-side. But at the back of that vision, behind the anguish of suspense, though it seemed to him that no word of actual prayer was possible, his whole being was concentrated into one passionate appeal for her safety. "O God!— O God!"—was all he could utter. It meant—everything. About half-way up she found herself on a narrow ledge, from which further progress looked all but hopeless. For a moment her heart failed. Could she go on? Should she turn back? She thought again of the two men; of Maurice, unable to stir; of Pressford, hanging senseless. She was their one hope. The thing had to be done. Again a cry for help was flung upwards from her heart; and she set herself resolutely to work, to surmount the difficulty—to climb a bare rock-surface, which commonly she would have counted insurmountable, unless she were roped. Careful study showed the only track which she could hope to follow with success; and she set to work. Her whole mind had to be bent on what she was doing; and every nerve was tense, as she crept from crack to crack, clinging, gripping, holding on for very life. Not for her own life only! Was she not given this to do —for others? That recollection brought renewed confidence.