Years ago there had been a small find of china clay on the headland. It had been lowered in buckets over the side of the cliff to be taken away by boat, and the remains of the apparatus, a derelict, rickety affair, stood within a few yards of the place where the watchers were gathered. A rusty bucket was still attached to the frayed, weather-worn rope twisted round the roller. To descend by so frail a support was indeed a risk so great that only the most desperate necessity could justify it. A general murmur of horror arose from those assembled. "It's the one chance--I'm going to try it," repeated Gerda. "You can lower me gently by the handle. I'm going to save him--or die with him." She began rapidly to unwind the windlass so as to allow the bucket to reach the edge of the cliff. Realizing that she was in grim earnest, the others offered no further objection, and came eagerly to her assistance. She had seized the rope and was about to step into the bucket when a strong hand put her aside. The stranger in the brown jersey had silently joined himself to the group. "This is my place," he said firmly. "I am going down the cliff. Hold hard, there! Pay out the rope gently and don't let me go with a run or I'm done for. Easy! Easy! Give me more rope when I call." So quickly did he substitute himself for Gerda that he was over the edge of the cliff almost before anyone had realized what was taking place. The onlookers held their breath as they watched the perilous descent. The bucket swayed from side to side and bumped against the rock, but holding on to the rope with one hand the man managed with the other to keep himself from injury. Down--down--down he swung, till, clear of the cliff, he dangled, as it seemed, in mid-air. "Now, rope! More rope!" he called. "Quicker!"