Along the edge of the gorge the two men strode, searching carefully for an out-jutting spur of rock upon the opposite side. For a time their efforts were unrewarded, and Seymour began to grow impatient. Every instant was of priceless value; each moment the odds against their being able to carry out their desperate plan of rescue increased. Then suddenly they came in sight of a crag which appeared as though it had been made for the purpose. Whirling his roughly made lasso above his head, the Yankee made a cast. But the noose fell short, and the rope swished downward into the gorge. “Better luck next time,” Silas muttered, as he recoiled it. Once more he threw the noose, and this time fortune attended his efforts. The rope settled over the rocky spur, and was at once pulled taut. “I guess we’ll have to risk the rock cuttin’ the hide,” the Yankee said, as he securely fastened his end of the rope to an adjacent boulder. Creeping to the verge, he took a firm grip of the hide with both hands, and lowered himself over into the gorge. The frail rope creaked ominously beneath his weight, as, hand over hand, he commenced to drag himself across that yawning gulf. Each instant it seemed as though the swaying thread on which his life depended would snap. Beads of sweat stood out upon Seymour’s forehead as he watched his friend’s perilous progress. The American’s lithe body swayed and danced like a puppet, as his hands clasped and unclasped upon the rope. Halfway across he paused for a brief rest, then on he toiled once more, until he reached the crag to which the rope was fastened. With a supreme effort he dragged himself upon the rock, and lay panting awhile as the result of his tremendous exertions. When he had somewhat recovered, he rose, and made a careful examination of the rope at the point where it encircled the crag. “Unlash it for a moment, Seymour,” he called, his voice echoing strangely from the depths of the chasm. As the baronet complied with his request, Silas removed the noose. Taking off his jacket, he wrapped it closely around the rock, replacing the rope over it. “I guess that’ll keep it from wearing through,” he said. “If you’ll do the same your side, it will lessen the risk of it snapping.” Sir William followed his example, then launched himself cautiously over the brink. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he advanced, though the rope cut his hands like a knife. His arms seemed to be leaving their sockets through the strain, and his eyes grew dim and bloodshot, yet he still dragged onward. Longingly he gazed upon the opposite lip of the gorge, where Haverly sat at ease. Would he be able to hold out? It seemed doubtful, for his strength was ebbing fast. His great weight made his crossing ten times more difficult than the lighter-built Yankee’s had been. His goal appeared to recede as he advanced. What would he not give to rest his aching arms for just one moment? “Courage!” cried his friend, and the word gave him strength.