She freed the rope from Pressford, and then, with a good deal of difficulty, succeeded in fastening it strongly round a crag. "I think it will do now. I've pulled hard, and it holds," she said. "Stay where you are. I'm coming." She could hear but could not see Maurice's movements. The waiting, the inaction, tried her much, after the past strain and exertion. Pressford did not stir, but once or twice she heard him mutter an incoherent word. She could see that he had had a heavy blow on the head, where his hair was matted with blood. Keeping a hand on his shoulder, lest he should try to get up, she counted the slow moments. "If Maurice should slip," became a haunting fear. True, he had the rope; and that, if it held, would keep him from falling far. But what if she had not made the rope quite secure? What if the crag should snap under a sudden jerk? What if he, in his turn, should be stunned? These and other possibilities ran riot in her mind. If anything happened to him, what could she do, alone on this ledge of rock with the helpless Pressford? She had come up, alone. She was certain that she could never go down alone. Beyond and above such fears, it flashed across her what a difference would be wrought in her life, if Maurice were killed! Till this hour she had hardly recognised the place which he had won in her heart. He was coming—coming. She could hear the sounds of his gradual approach. She said no word, called no question. He needed all his faculties, undisturbed, for the descent. The actual difficulties of the gully were indeed much less for him than for her; but he had passed through a nerve-trying experience, which might well have lessened his powers of endurance. And though the rope was there to break his fall, in case of a slip, it gave him no actual help in his descent. Suddenly he was within sight. She held her breath. Those critical steps, dividing the couloir from the ledge, had to be taken, but to a practised mountaineer they meant nothing. One moment more—and he stepped upon the ledge. Doris's forebodings vanished like smoke. In an instant she felt as safe as if at the mountain's base. His hand grasped hers with a long and meaning grip which spoke volumes; and their eyes met. Words were not needed; perhaps, at least for Maurice, were not possible. Each felt only that the other was safe; that a great danger was over; that a terrible calamity had been averted. That prolonged grasp spoke of a thankfulness which could not be voiced,—of a mutual joy beyond speech,—of a drawing closer together of their two lives. Then, still in silence, Maurice knelt beside Pressford, examined the blow on his head, and passed a careful hand over different parts of his body. "Is he much hurt?" Doris ventured to ask. "I hope not. I can't be sure yet as to other injuries; but no bones seem to be broken. He is badly stunned, poor fellow!" After a slight pause,—"I must rope you next, and send you down." "And Mr. Pressford?"