what the priest said i do not know, for he spoke in patois, but the grip on my wrists and arms relaxed—reluctantly, i thought, as if it was a pity to lose so excellent an opportunity of paying off old grudges. very slowly all four drew back, breathing heavily, as men do who struggle to overmaster their breathlessness. so we stood for half a minute, then i moved aside to the upward face of the rock.

"good!" said i, answering mademoiselle's bitter mistrust, rather than her broken appeal upon the men's behalf. against them i had no rancour; the fault was none of theirs, if their zeal lacked information. "good! he is the count de foix! let foix and navarre save him, only let them remember that there is fifty feet of a tumble below that bundle of linen there, and a bed of saw-toothed rocks to fall upon."

it is my belief that for these thirty seconds, and the minute or two of stress which preceded them, mademoiselle had utterly forgotten the boy's danger. instantly she turned, and, pointing downward, broke into passionate command. her speech was that quaint mixture of slurred french, spanish and basque which passed for a language in morsigny, and so was strange to me. but the clamour of the boy's need made her meaning clear, even had she spoken no word. nudely, ruthlessly clear, and a grim gladness warmed me to see that hugues and the spaniard grew cold as she waxed more and more passionate, her brief authority lost at the last in a pleading almost choked by tears.

a word or two of the slurred french i understood, such as peace, navarre, their duty, then navarre again, and yet again navarre. but to more than fifty feet of a fall left them cold. peace? the peace of a loosened grip was too profound a peace for their taste! duty? surely the soul's first duty is to its own body! navarre? they looked at one another; navarre would have battles to fight, and dead men, even dead in duty, make no war. so they argued, speaking no word; and so, with my back against the cliff, i read their reasoning and laughed aloud.

but the laughter died in my mouth.

if it failed to shame them, being coarse-grained peasants, it moved mademoiselle to an unendurable despair. with a last indignant word, some acid, biting phrase of scorn, she knelt to renew her folly of descent. but to do hugues and the other justice, if they were careful of themselves they were careful also of her, for even before i could reach her they held her back.

"leave me go, you cowards, leave me go!" she cried, struggling, her face wet with unconscious tears of rage and shame. "my god! is there not one man amongst you!"

"it is for navarre," said i, giving my bitter mood rein, now she was safe. "it is for foix and navarre; let me beg you both to fall down fifty feet for the glory of foix and navarre. the thought will comfort you—till you hit the stones at the bottom."

it was not a very manly gibe, but in the best of us, and i do not claim to be that, there is a beast who only needs rousing, and at that moment the man in me was not uppermost. from the hilltop i had sunk to the valley. my new found and newer trampled love was too raw in its wounds to be just. had not mademoiselle, in her very last words, called me a coward with the rest? and yet it was she whose scorn and contumely forbade me to climb.

"oh, that i were a man!" she said, swallowing her sobs till they choked her; "then would i sooner lie dead with the child."

while she was speaking, brother paulus had risen and stripped himself of his clinging frock. now, flinging it aside, he turned to me.

"so would i; she is right, monsieur hellewyl; the shame of it is not to be borne."

"a man," said i, answering mademoiselle, but laying the flat of my hand on the priest's breast, that he might do nothing useless. the spirit within him was strong to dare, but the flesh was weak. had there been ten father pauls, they must have followed one another to the bottom of the cliff. "a man—that is, a true man—one trusts. do you trust me, mademoiselle?"

"oh, you are cruel!" she cried, but the sobs were softer. "would you let the child die because of a girl's——?" she paused, searching for an adjective, but finding none that fitted her thought went on—"must i ask your pardon, monsieur? must i humble myself to you? i'll do it, i'll do it gladly."

"i would have you say: i trust you. come what may, i trust you, now and always."

as a child repeats its lesson she answered me, her face all drawn by pain, the tears still shining in her eyes. "i trust you, monsieur, now and always, come what may."

of what followed i have no desire to say much. of neither the manner nor the motive of the exploit have i any reason to be proud. for the one, i am a man of the flats, and with no skill for such a piece of work. to every crevice, every cranny, every boss of rock i clung as a drowning cat clings to a crumbling bank when a swishing current tears at her flanks; and if i did not howl in my terror like the same cat, it was because i grit my teeth and whimpered inwardly, for there is no denying i was horribly afraid. fifty feet of air hung from my ancles, dragging me down like so many pounds of lead. as to the motive, it was compounded of as many diversities as go to the mixing of an apothecary's potion. there was a little pity, a little pride, a little love, some contempt, some braggadocio, jan meert's throat, and a new roof to solignac all blent through it. but most of these i left on the ledge or dropped into the void at the first touch of despair, and thenceforward pride and a dogged love of dear life were motive enough.

blunderer as i was, and hampered by brother paul's frock knotted loosely across my shoulders, i must inevitably have followed the bulk of my influencing ingredients, had not mademoiselle directed every move.

"there is a knob of rock to the right; no, more to the right—more yet—yes, that is it; but, oh, monsieur, try it first before you trust your weight upon it, lest it crumble. it holds? thank god for that! now a foot below there is a crevice, and then to the left an open seam for your fingers. you have it? that is splendid, splendid! remember, always to the right, little by little, the—the—boy lies there, and—oh, god! he is stirring. gaston! gaston! do not move! jesu! jesu! that he may not move! lie still, gaston, lie still, mon gars; the brave monsieur gaspard is going down to you, and there is nothing to fear, nothing—do you hear me?—nothing at all."

for which sore straining of the truth may she be forgiven! nothing to fear? if there was nothing to fear, why was the sweat pouring down my back, or that sob rattling in my throat? and why was the brave monsieur gaspard realising fully for the first time how good a thing is life?

how long the boy had recovered consciousness i do not know, but the bewilderment of the shock had passed away, and now the courage that had squared his fists in the whin brake saved him. from the silence which followed mademoiselle's passionate adjuration, a thin voice piped out: "i'm not afraid, suzanne. i hear you, and i will be quiet."

"mon brave! thou art not afraid, no, not thou; but do not stir, my heart, no, not a finger. monsieur hellewyl, are you rested? there is a ledge below you sloping to the right. it must be four inches broad—good! that is it. only a moment now gaston, and the rest is easy." for which second straining of the truth, i say again, may she be forgiven! later, long after, i learned that this time the lie was on my account. in the brief pause i had glanced up, and from the agony of soul stamped on my white face, mademoiselle for the first time truly recognised the risk i ran. the paris rabble had taught her it was no common danger that made gaspard hellewyl go in frank terror for his life—i use her own words—and with a quick wit she set herself to put heart in me, and at a time when there was least heart in her own hope. but i believed her, and the lie steadied my nerve. believing the rest to be easier made it easier, for there is no courage like the courage of faith; that of manhood or despair alike pales before its forces.

nor was the upward journey so difficult, even with the child upon my back in the monk's frock, knapsack fashion. every foot climbed was a year or more of life gained, and mademoiselle's face, still white, but with the tears dried from the eyes, turned down to mine, drew me. not a word was spoken, hardly a breath except my own seemed to stir; but god, he knows what prayers went up through the silence. then came the end. down from the top 'tuco stretched his long arms, grasping my wrists. with a heave, hugues helping, i was breast high; another, and we rolled forward on the ledge, four pairs of hands holding us, with mademoiselle sobbing and crying as she had neither sobbed nor cried while the fear of death was cold upon her.

"let come what may, mademoiselle?" said i, when i could command my breath.

"let come what may," she answered, and this time it was not the tears that shone in the eyes, but the eyes behind the tears.

thenceforward, not even 'tuco the spaniard held us in doubt, and as we rode into morsigny i knew that my bleeding finger-tips had drawn nearer three such differing rewards as mademoiselle's friendship, jan meert's throat, and the building again of solignac.