The rope grew steeper. Now it seemed an impossible journey there ahead of us. But he went on with a steady stride, and the hempen hill bent inward as he put his feet upon it. With joy I could see my tree-top coming nearer, but every step I had to look up a little farther to see it. Suddenly the rope began to swing again--I do not know why. It has been said that some reckless fellow had wilfully pulled a guy-rope. The whole side of the cliff began to rock as before. The strands of muscle under me tightened quickly. The performer slowed his pace, and stopped for half a second. The ends of his pole went up and down like a teeter-board. Again his feet struck the rope. “_Courage!_” he whispered. He took two or three quick steps and stopped again. He had checked the swing of the rope, and now resumed his progress up the steep hill. He climbed slowly near the end of it, and a mighty cheer ran up and down the edge of the cliffs when he sprang ashore. I jumped from his back, and saw, when he shook my hand, that his own trembled a bit and that he was breathing heavily. He put on a suit of clothes and beckoned me to a carriage that stood near. I took a seat beside him, and went to his inn. The interpreter met us there, and had my bouts, coat, and hat with him. “Monsieur wishes me to thank you, and say that we have paid your father,” he remarked. “My father!” “Yes; the man who came with you. Is he not your father?” “No,” I said, “and he has taken my money and gone with it.” So bitter was my disappointment that I sat down upon the floor, and covered my face and wept. Then there was a great chattering in French, and the performer came and gave me a pat of sympathy on my shoulder and a ten-dollar bill. A crowd of curious people followed me on my way to my inn--mostly boys of about my own age and younger. They felt of my garments, and ran before me, staring into my face. Grievous and heavy was my sense of distinction. It covered me with shame. There was something wrong about my bravery. At the inn I found Sam and his bride and Ephraim Baker. Somehow they had heard of my part in the rope-walking. “Did that crowd of boys follow you?” Sam inquired. “Yes.” “They can't see the biggest fool in America _every day_,” said Mr. Baker. Well, I suddenly got a strong desire to move on. I was a bit wiser when I started for Graham's hotel in Buffalo, where Mr. McCarthy was to meet me. Ephraim Baker had called me a fool, but I knew better than that. I had sense enough now, at least, to understand the difference between courage and folly. It is about the last lesson of boyhood. That narrow, bending path of hemp had been for me a bridge between the cliffs of youth and young manhood, of recklessness and prudence. The crossing is ever full of peril, and there is always some one to pull the rope and increase our difficulty.