FOR LIFE OR DEATH.
Coppinger did not hesitate a moment now to leave the corpse on the
beach where he had found it, and to hasten to the cave.
There was a third alternative to which hitherto he had given no
attention. Judith, in ascending the cliff, might have strayed from the
track, and be in such a position that she could neither advance nor
draw back. He would, therefore, explore the path from the chimney
mouth, and see if any token could be found of her having so done.
He again held his smouldering tinder and by this feeble glimmer made
his way up the inclined beach within the cave, passed under the arch
of the rock where low, and found himself in that portion where was the
boat.
Here he knew of a receptacle for sundries, such as might be useful in
an emergency, and to that he made his way, and drew from it a piece of
candle and a lantern. He speedily lighted the candle, set it in the
lantern, and then ascended the chimney.
On reaching the platform at the orifice in the face of the rock, it
occurred to him that he had forgotten to bring rope with him. He would
not return for that, unless he found a need for it. Rope there was
below, of many yards length. Till he knew that it was required, it
seemed hardly worth his while to encumber himself with a coil that
might be too long or too short for use. He did not even know that he
would find Judith. It was a chance, that was all. It was more probable
that she had strayed on the down, and was now back at Polzeath, and
safe and warm in bed.
From the ledge in front of the shaft Coppinger proceeded with caution
and leisure, exploring every portion of the ascent with lowered
lantern. There were plenty of impressions of feet wherever the soft
and crumbly beds had been traversed, and where the dissolved stone had
been converted into clay or mud, but these were the impressions of the
smugglers escaping from their den. Step by step he mounted, till he
had got about half-way up, when he noticed, what he had not previously
observed, that there was a point at which the track left the ledge of
stratified vertical rock that had inclined its broken edge upward, and
by a series of slips mounted to another fractured stratum, a leaf of
the story-book turned up with the record of infinite ages sealed up in
it. It was possible that one unacquainted with the course might grope
onward, following the ledge instead of deserting it for a direct
upward climb. As Coppinger now perceived, one ignorant of the way and
unprovided with a light would naturally follow the shelf. He
accordingly deserted the track, and advanced along the ledge. There
was a little turf in one place, in the next a tuft of armeria, then
mud or clay, and there--assuredly a foot had trodden. There was a mark
of a sole that was too small to have belonged to a man.
The shelf at first was tolerably broad, and could be followed without
risk by one whose head was steady; but for how long would it so
continue? These rough edges, these laminæ of upheaved slate were
treacherous--they were sometimes completely broken down, forming gaps,
in places stridable, in others discontinuous for many yards.
The footprints satisfied Coppinger that Judith had crept along this
terrace, and so had missed the right course. It was impossible that
she could reach the summit by this way--she must have fallen or be
clinging at some point farther ahead, a point from which she could not
advance, and feared to retreat.
He held the lantern above his head, and peered before him, but could
see nothing. The glare of the artificial light made the darkness
beyond its radius the deeper and more impervious to the eye. He
called, but received no answer. He called again, with as little
success. He listened, but heard no other sound than the mutter of the
sea, and the wail of the wind. There was nothing for him to do but to
go forward; and he did that slowly, searchingly, with the light near
the ground, seeking for some further trace of Judith. He was obliged
to use caution, as the ledge of rock narrowed. Here it was hard, and
the foot passing over it made no impression. Then ensued a rift and a
slide of shale, and here he thought he observed indications of recent
dislodgement.
Now the foot-hold was reduced, he could no longer stoop to examine the
soil; he must stand upright and hold to the rock with his right hand,
and move with precaution lest he should be precipitated below.
Was it conceivable that she had passed there?--there in the dark? And
yet--if she had not, she must have been hurled below.
Coppinger, clinging with his fingers, and thrusting one foot before
the other, then drawing forward that foot, with every faculty on the
alert, passed to where, for a short space, the ledge of rock expanded,
and there he stooped once more with the light to explore. Beyond was a
sheer fall, and the dull glare from his lantern showed him no
continuance of the shelf. As he arose from his bent position, suddenly
the light fell on a hand--a delicate, childish hand--hanging down. He
raised the lantern, and saw her whom he sought. At this point she had
climbed upward to a higher ledge, and on that she lay, one arm raised,
fastened by a chain to a tuft of heather--her head fallen against the
rock, and feet and one arm over the edge of the cliff. She was
unconscious, sustained by a dog-chain and a little bunch of ling.
Coppinger passed the candle over her face. It was white, and the eyes
did not close before the light.
His position was vastly difficult. She hung there chained to the
cliff, and he doubted whether he could sustain her weight if he
attempted to carry her back while she was unconscious, along the way
he and she had come. It was perilous for one alone to move along that
strip of surface; it seemed impossible for one to effect it bearing in
his arms a human burden.
Moreover, Coppinger was well aware that his left arm had not recovered
its strength. He could not trust her weight on that. He dare not trust
it on his right arm, for to return by the way he came the right hand
would be that which was toward the void. The principal weight must be
thrown inward.
What was to be done? This, primarily: to release the insensible girl
from her present position, in which the agony of the strain on her
shoulder perhaps prolonged her unconsciousness.
Coppinger mounted to the shelf on which she lay, and bowing himself
over her, while holding her, so that she should not slip over the
edge, he disentangled the chain from her wrist and the stems of the
heather. Then he seated himself beside her, drew her toward him, with
his right arm about her, and laid her head on his shoulder.
And the chain?
That he took and deliberately passed it round her waist and his own
body, fastened it, and muttered, "For life or for death!"
There, for a while, he sat. He had set the lantern beside him. His
hand was on Judith's heart, and he held his breath, and waited to feel
if there was pulsation there; but his own arteries were in such
agitation, the throb in his finger ends prevented his being able to
satisfy himself as to what he desired to know.
He could not remain longer in his present position. Judith might never
revive. She had swooned through over-exhaustion, and nothing could
restore her to life but the warmth and care she would receive in a
house; he cursed his folly, his thoughtlessness, in having brought
with him no flask of brandy. He dared remain no longer where he was,
the ebbing powers in the feeble life might sink beyond recall.
He thrust his right arm under her, and adjusted the chain about him so
as to throw some of her weight off the arm, and then cautiously slid
to the step below, and, holding her, set his back to the rocky wall.
So, facing the Atlantic Ocean, facing the wild night sky, torn here
and there into flakes of light, otherwise cloaked in storm-gloom, with
the abyss below, an abyss of jagged rock and shingle shore, he began
to make his way along the track by which he had gained that point.
He was at that part where the shelf narrowed to a foot, and his safety
and hers depended largely on the power that remained to him in his
left arm. With the hand of that arm he felt along and clutched every
projecting point of rock, and held to it with every sinew strained and
starting. He drew a long breath. Was Judith stirring on his arm?
The critical minute had come. The slightest movement, the least
displacement of the balance, and both would be precipitated below.
"Judith!" said he, hoarsely, turning his head toward her ear.
"Judith!"
There was no reply.
"Judith! For Heaven's sake--if you hear me--do not lift a finger. Do
not move a muscle."
The same heavy weight on him without motion.
"Judith! For life--or death!"
Then suddenly from off the ocean flashed a tiny spark--far, far away.
It was a signal from the Black Prince.
He saw it, fixed his eyes steadily on it, and began to move sideways,
facing the sea, his back to the rock, reaching forward with his left
arm, holding Judith in the right.
"For life!"
He took one step sideways, holding with the disengaged hand to the
rock. The bone of that arm was but just knit. Not only so, but that of
the collar was also recently sealed up after fracture. Yet the
salvation of two lives hung on these two infirm joints. The arm was
stiff; the muscles had not recovered flexibility, nor the sinews their
strength.
"For death!"
A second sidelong step, and the projected foot slid in greasy marl. He
dug his heel into the wet and yielding soil, he stamped in it; then,
throwing all his weight on the left heel, aided by the left arm, he
drew himself along and planted the right beside the left.
He sucked the air in between his teeth with a hiss. The soft soil was
sinking--it would break away. The light from the Black Prince seemed
to rise. With a wrench he planted his left foot on rock--and drew up
the right to it.
"Judith! For life!"
That star on the black sea--what did it mean? He knew. His mind was
clear, and though in intense concentration of all his powers on the
effort to pass this strip of perilous path, he could reason of other
things, and knew why the Black Prince had exposed her light. The
lantern that he had borne, and left on the shelf, had been seen by
her, and she supposed it to be a signal from the terrace over the
cave.
The next step was full of peril. With his left foot advanced,
Coppinger felt he had reached the shale. He kicked into it, and kicked
away an avalanche of loose flakes that slid over the edge. But he
drove his foot deep into the slope, and rammed a dent into which he
could fix the right foot when drawn after it.
"For death!"
Then he crept along upon the shale.
He could not see the star now. His sweat, rolling off his brow, had
run over his eyelids and charged the lashes with tears. In partial
blindness he essayed the next step.
"For life!"
Then he breathed more freely. His foot was on the grass.
The passage of extreme danger was over. From the point now reached the
ledge widened, and Coppinger was able to creep onward with less stress
laid on the fractured bones. The anguish of expectation of death was
lightened; and as it lightened nature began to assert herself. His
teeth chattered as in an ague fit, and his breath came in sobs.
In ten minutes he had attained the summit--he was on the down above
the cliffs.
"Judith," said he, and he kissed her cheeks and brow and hair. "For
life--for death--mine, only mine."