"We must go back," says I quietly; "there is an abyss beside me which we can not cross."

"Very well," says she after a moment's pause. "Tell me when you are ready."

"We will wait a minute till your strength comes back," says I, for I felt her fingers quivering, despite my close hold.

"Nay, let us go at once, lest my courage fail," says she faintly. "But have a care when you come to the little ledge: it is loose; I felt it slide under my foot."

"Let me change places, that I may go first," says I.

"No, no!" cries she in an agony, as I was about to move; "for Heaven's sake, do not venture down the slope to pa.s.s me--do not leave go of my hand."

"So be it," says I; "but do prythee await till you feel stouter of heart." And then I tried to restore her confidence by all the means I could; but indeed my own heart quailed within me. For to realize our terrible position, you must fancy yourself standing on the steep roof of the highest cathedral, with no parapet to arrest your fall, and one of the slates so loose that it may slip under your foot, no matter how carefully you step.

"Thank you, Benet," says my dear lady. "You have brought my courage back. Come, let us go."

So with that she begins that backward journey; but now, instead of looking to the rock under my own feet, I was casting my eyes to my dear lady's for that loose rock she had spoken of. Presently I caught sight of it--a great slab that lay on the slope, with no s.p.a.ce behind for a footing, and too wide to step across. And seeing this I sought with an eager fury for some means of stopping our fall if this slab should slide under our feet, but I could spy nothing but a fissure behind the slab, into which I might by chance thrust my arm in falling.

Now scarcely had my eye made this out when my dear lady stepped on the slab, and, to my sickening horror, I perceived it tilt a little, being very nicely poised; and doubtless had I set my foot firmly upon it at that moment, our combined weight would have held it firm and stationary, as it had in pa.s.sing over it before, until it was released of my weight.

But this did not occur to my slow wit at the right time--nay, rather, seeing this movement, I held back, and would have drawn my lady away.

This hesitation (and maybe a little jerk I gave in my terror to her hand) was fatal, for ere I could cry aloud to her the great slab slid, and my dear lady, in striving to keep her balance, lost her footing and fell; then seeing that I was like to be drawn down the slope myself, when nothing in the world could have saved us from sliding with the slab to perdition, I threw myself on my face, and, flinging aside my stick, thrust my arm down that rent in the rock of which I have made mention.

Thus I lay sprawled on that steep incline, half the length of my left arm wedged in the fissure above my head, and my right hand linked to my Lady Biddy's as she lay p.r.o.ne upon the slab.

My sole thought was to hold my dear lady, and this was no slight matter, for the edge of the slab had caught in her waist-belt, so that for a moment she and that great ma.s.s of rock hung, as I may say, on my bent arm. In that moment the bone of my forearm snapped like a dry stick, and indeed I thought my muscles must be torn asunder also, so sharp and strong was the strain upon it; but, thanks be to G.o.d, my lady's belt bursting, the slab slid from beneath her, and so was I relieved of that prodigious weight.

We heard the slab screech as it grated down the slope; then followed an interval of silence, in which one might have counted a score, followed by a great crash as the rock fell upon the crags below, smiting my soul with awe to think how we had surely been hurled down with it to our utter destruction but for a mercy of Providence.

But my arm was powerless to draw myself up, and fearing the torment of it might take away my senses, so that I might let my lady's hand slip, I called to her.

"Cousin," says I, "are you hurt sorely?"

"No," replies she faintly, "only frightened, Benet."

"G.o.d be praised!" says I. "And so do, if you may, roll hither and climb up by my body to the rock above, for I have no strength left."

And this she did, but with great pain and trouble, for the dear soul trembled in every limb, and was faint from the shock. I helped her as well as I might with my right arm, yet could I do but little for my own sickness. However, she presently got strength from a source which never fails to invigorate such hearts as hers; for, coming as high as my shoulder, she cries:

"Dear Benet, your arm is broken"; and with that she quits my body and starts to her feet, which had she not dared to do under other conditions.

"Nay," says I, "take no heed of that, but do place your feet upon that crevice, which will give you a good hold."

"Ay, surely," says she, stepping up briskly. "Now may I help you, my poor Benet; give me your right hand, and have no fear. See how strong I am!"

Indeed, in helping me to my feet she proved herself as l.u.s.ty as any man; and in getting from that horrid slope to a place of safety I owed more to her a hundredfold than she to me.

Of her readiness and tenderness in making a sling to bear my arm; of her gentle, encouraging words as she led the way down the rocks to our cavern, ever choosing the way most direct and least difficult for me; of her thoughtfulness in running forward to fetch me cool water from a spring to sup; of these things, I say, and many others, I have no words to speak, for no words that I know of can do her justice.

CHAPTER LXI.

I FALL INTO A DISMAL SICKNESS, AND RECOVER THEREOF.

When we were got into our cavern, my dear lady, of her own hand and wit, cut some strips of bark to serve as splints, and some of that gra.s.s which she used to shred for threads; then ripping up the sleeve of my doublet she, with her gentle, soft fingers, set the bone of my broken arm, and bound it up in the bark as ably and well as any clever surgeon could have served me. After that, seeing that the sweat of agony stood on my face, despite the joy it gave me to feel the touch of her sweet hand, and to note how admirably skillful she was in this business (as in all else), she would have me lie down awhile; and to this end she spread one of our mats on the floor of our living-room, that I might get the benefit of the air, and made up a pillow for my head with a bundle of soft herbs that we kept in store for the conies; and scarce had I laid my head down with a look and a little murmur to express my heartfelt grat.i.tude (for I had no power to speak) when the things about me seemed to swim round and round, and I lost consciousness.

I lay in a foolish dream some time (though what absurdity was in my mind I cannot recall), and waking at length to my proper senses, the first thing I observed was that something cool and soft pressed my forehead, and looking up I perceived my little comrade kneeling beside me, with grave wistfulness in her deep eyes.

"What o'clock is it?" says I, like any fool.

"Nay, never mind about the hour, dear Benet," says she tenderly; and with that she shifts her hand, which was that I felt so gratefully cool on my forehead. But she shifted it only to set the other in its place, whereupon I sighed with comfort. Seeing I was pleased, she smiled sweetly, and says she:

"D'ye know me, Benet?"

"Ay, cousin," says I, "why should I not?"

"'Tis three days since you last called me 'cousin.' Your mind has been wandering away from me."

"Is it possible?" says I.

"I feared you were going to leave me here alone for ever," says she, her voice trembling, and her eyes twinkling with a tear. "But you've come back to me after all," adds she with a faint laugh, and a little gulp as she turned aside to dash the tears away with her unoccupied hand.

"G.o.d be praised!" says I.

"Amen, amen, amen!" says she with pa.s.sion. "And now do you taste of this broth I have made."

So I quickly made a shift to sit up, with her help, and eagerly emptied the gourd of the broth she had prepared; for not only was I prodigious hungry, but a stout determination seized me that I would overcome my weakness, and give this dear, dear companion no further anxiety.

"Give me some more if you have it, cousin," says I.

"To be sure I have more," says she. "What sort of a housewife should I be if my larder were empty when I expected company?"

Watching her narrowly as she hurried herself to refill the gourd, I observed, with a keen pang of sorrow, that her sweet face was thin and worn with care, albeit her fair countenance was overspread with a glow of happy contentment.

She bade me lie down again when I had emptied the second bowl of broth; and then, to please me, she brought her breakfast (for 'twas early morning), and ate it sitting on the ground beside me, which was her will and not mine. And when I asked her what had been amiss with me, she told me I had been light-headed, and would for ever be a-starting off to find my uncle Sir Bartlemy, though too weak to rise, and obedient to her hand, though I knew her not. "But," says she, "since yesterday morning you have had no strength even to speak, and I have heard no sound but--"

She stopped, but I knew by the sound that rose from her tender bosom it was her own sobs she had heard. "But all that is past," says she cheerily; "and now you will soon be well again, and strong, won't you?"

"Ay," says I, "I promise you I'll be master of those mountains in a week."

"Benet," says she earnestly, "you must grant me a favor."

"With all my soul," says I.

"Then promise me you will never again essay to pa.s.s those terrible mountains. Promise!" says she. "And this also--that you will not approach that pestilent marsh, for I do think 'tis the fetid mists from the corruption there which has thrown you into this sickness."

"You ask too much of me," says I, "for how, but by one of these ways, can I hope to carry you hence? You have not reflected on that."

"Yes, I have," says she quietly. "I know that I am asking you to stay with me in the captivity to which our fortunes have brought us. Have we not sought by all the means in our power to escape? If Providence willed us to go hence, should we be thus cruelly rebuffed? Is it not better, Benet, to live here together than to perish singly? Oh, I cannot bear the thought of that. To be left alone--no one to speak to--no voice to cheer me! Have we been unhappy? Can we ever be without comfort, striving each to make the other happy? We may yet improve our cabin: the summer is at hand."