_THE PRECIOUS STOCKING._
"Thick veined with amethyst and zeolite."
Marie had now joined her father near the head of the cove, and was an
interested though silent spectator of the events that were transpiring.
The intensity of her feeling was shown in her eyes. She forgot herself
entirely in the overpowering emotion caused by the danger Winslow was
in, and by his inability to do anything to aid his escape from the ledge
without the assistance of her father. At the same time she feared that
even Pierre could not rescue him. Her fear for the young man was greater
than her confidence in her father's skill to aid him, the situation of
Winslow seemed so terribly fraught with danger.
"Pass up your rope, now, Len," said Winslow, as he saw the young man
making a suitable coil for throwing, and measuring the distance to the
shelf with his eye.
"Try a throw from that high rock there, skipper."
Len did as he was directed, but the rope did not reach half the
necessary height.
"Have you a ball of stout twine?" asked Winslow, his mind alert and
stronger now. "If so, throw it up to me, and I will let down the end for
your rope."
All pockets were emptied, but only a few yards of twine of varying size
and quality were found, Marie's shoelaces not adding nearly enough to
serve the purpose.
Suddenly the young woman made an exclamation of joy, and turning to her
father, came close to him and said in their native tongue:
"J'amelerai mon bas, père."
"Merci, mademoiselle," said Winslow, in good French accent.
These words only added greater speed to her feet as she withdrew from
sight behind a large rock, and in a few minutes appeared again with a
goodly ball of yarn. Her appearance at once disclosed the secret the
rock would otherwise have kept. There was not enough of her skirt to
cover her rough boots used for the beach and the shell-covered
dulse-beds, so beneath it was seen one white ankle and part of a limb,
which was reason enough for the heightened color of the maiden's cheeks.
It must be understood that a stocking can only be unravelled by
beginning at the end knitted last, namely, at the toe.
"Now, Len, do your best. Throw it as near to me as you can."
The ordeal was too much for his accuracy of aim, and he threw the ball
so that it lodged out of Winslow's reach, some distance to one side.
At this unlucky throw Marie hastened to the large rock again, and
returned at once with the leg of a stocking which had already been
partly sacrificed. She gave one end of it to her father to hold, and
with deft fingers began to wind up another ball of the strong homespun
yarn. This was ready in a few minutes, and Pierre took the ball, and
standing at some distance away from the cliff, threw it upward to within
easy reach of Winslow, who soon had hold of it.
Tying a small stone to the end of the yarn, Winslow let it down the side
of the ledge to Pierre, holding the ball carefully. When the end came to
the old man's hand, and he had drawn out enough of it to serve, Winslow
then held the upper end of the length with his mouth, and, still
retaining the ball, unrolled it and let down a loop of the string, till
Pierre had three lengths to which to attach the rope.
"Now let me see what I can do with the rope when I get it up here," said
Winslow.
Pierre now spoke. "I see but one place where you can fasten the rope.
That is a little beyond where you got the water. It looks like a corner
of stone which this loop I have made will slip over."
Winslow could see the place, and moved forward to it.
"You see, sir, that the rock of the shelf is bare and firm there, so
that when you slip off the rock you are on now to come down the rope you
are not likely to bring down a lot of stone on top of you or us, and
perhaps break your hold upon the rope."
"True," answered Winslow, "I will try the point."
With hand and mouth Winslow succeeded in getting the loop of the
life-line to his hand, and trying it over the rock found that it would
not hold.
"It will not hold," said Winslow, in a disappointed tone.
"Is there a crack in the rock near in which you could put a stick to
hold the loop?" asked Pierre.
"Yes, there is," he replied. "A piece of wood an inch thick would hold."
"Let down the yarn, then, and this driftwood will give us what we want."
Selecting a tough piece of wood, Pierre attached the cord to it, and
Winslow with much labor drew it up to the shelf.
"Just the thing," he said, slipping the loop over the stake as he drove
it into the crack in position. It caused him many a twinge of pain, and
Marie's quick ears heard an occasional groan, and his face had become
pale again. She called her father's attention to this.
"You cannot feel sure of being able to come down the rope with one
hand," said Pierre, "though you have courage and determination. You have
not strength enough. We cannot go to you to help you any more. It would
only add to your danger. The rope is not long enough to lower you down.
Rest awhile, and when you are fully prepared to try the rope, the tide
will be in the cove and a fall will be less serious, if such an accident
should occur."
And then, turning to Len, Pierre went on: "It is time you were looking
after your boat."
"I see the water is already nearing the cove," said Winslow, now resting
as easily as he could, and showing in his voice and face that his
strength was much reduced.
As Len went away Pierre said to Marie, "I must leave you here for a
short time. Will you be afraid to stay?"
"No, père, but do not be gone long."
Marie, with all her pity disclosed in her eyes, was alone with Winslow.
Her shyness was forgotten in the fear that possessed her for his safety.
She gazed at him steadily as he lay against the cliff with his eyes
closed and the marks of his accident still upon him.
They remained in this situation for some time, Marie's alarm becoming
greater with vague uncertainty and doubt as the minutes passed without
any sign of her father's approach.
The tide had now come well into the cove and was rising rapidly, moving
steadily towards her where she sat. She could now detect the sound of
rolling pebbles on the edge of the tide. The cove was filled with a loud
noise as of some new, invisible life stirring and hurrying about from
one side to the other and whispering incoherently. A cool breeze had
followed the tide and was blowing into the place in gusts, and as she
watched Winslow she could see it move his hair, or lift the long tie
that hung from his throat. He opened his eyes as the sound of Pierre's
voice made Marie start to her feet. The noise of a cart bumping over the
rocks filled the cove with loud echoes, and the voice that guided them
recalled Winslow to affairs about him. Marie ran to her father as he
appeared in sight and spoke to him, in her anxiety expressing herself in
the Acadian tongue.
Pierre came up towards the head of the cove and spoke encouragingly to
Winslow.
"We will soon have you down now. The tide is well up, and when it is
deep enough to save you from falling upon the rocks in case anything
should happen to the rope or your strength should give out, you will be
saved any more bruises."
Pierre feared that Winslow could not get down the rope with one hand, in
his present weak state.
Winslow had indeed become so reduced in energy as to be unable to act
without the direction of Pierre.
Meanwhile, the oxen were backed close to where the rope reached the
ground, and stood patiently in the water, now rising quickly towards
their bodies. The cart was on the lower ground of the sloping beach of
the cove. Pierre stood ready in the cart, reserving his strength for the
final trial, and permitting Winslow to rest without fatiguing him with
useless conversation.
"Get yourself ready," commanded Pierre, putting force into his words
which rose above the increased sounds of the place.
Winslow slowly rose, obedient to the directing will of the old man.
"Lie down on the rock near the rope." The words were obeyed.
"Take the rope under you, and hold it with your hand." Painfully he
followed the instruction.
"Move your body till your legs hang over the shelf." A few minutes
passed away while Winslow slowly drew himself back, a few fragments of
stone clattering down as he reached the position indicated by Pierre.
Here he hung, his stronger hand holding the rope.
"Move your legs till the line is wound about them." As he complied the
line was given a circling motion till it had wound about his legs and
was held between them.
"Keep your legs stiff and hold on!" cried out Pierre, in a firm and
earnest tone of voice. The order came loud and sharp to the dull sense
of Winslow, and he put all his strength into play in a desperate effort,
his brain acting by the inherent desire to live, and the man responding,
though dully.
"Slip off the shelf, slowly, slowly."
In a moment Winslow was in mid air, clinging with one hand to the rope
held stiff by Pierre and kept away from the bluff wall. He was able by
means of the rope wound round Winslow's legs to control the speed of his
descent, and relieve the weight and muscular strain upon the one arm he
was able to use. Pierre kept him from falling down upon the rocks so
quickly as to injure or perhaps kill him. He let Winslow slip down
slowly, not to burn his hands or loosen his hold. He could not thus use
his strength many minutes, and the old man timed his fall carefully, as
not a second could be lost to ensure his safety. His place was yet
dangerous, because of its height, though he was clear of the dangerous
rock.
Seeing a sudden motion of Winslow's head, like that of a man who tries
to keep himself awake and yet nods, Pierre felt that he was relaxing his
hold of the rope.
"Hold on, hold on, sir," cried Pierre, reserving his last command for
the important time he saw had come. Immediately the head rose slowly,
and as the downward motion was checked altogether, he saw Winslow's arm
grow more rigid and his fingers clasp themselves more closely about the
rope.
Again Pierre lessened the strain on the rope, and the almost limp body
began to descend again slowly, the helpless arm swinging a little. Inch
by inch he lowered, each fraction of time lessening the danger and
bringing him nearer the arms of the old man.
Suddenly, without warning, Winslow's head fell back and his hand
relaxed, and slipping out of the control of the rope he fell into the
water near Pierre, who was now up to his armpits in the tide.
Seizing the unconscious form of the young man, he bore him to the cart
higher up the sloping beach, and speaking to the well-trained oxen,
directed them out of the water to the dry shore.
Pierre found Marie in a swoon, and placing her in the cart beside the
lifeless form of Winslow, he urged his oxen quickly forward along the
devious way among the boulders, and soon came to the road leading upward
to his home on the summit of the island. At "Bluff Castle," as Pierre's
stone house was called, Suzanne anxiously waited, while out on the
rising tide the _Marie_, under sail, was making for safe harbor.
When Winslow came to himself, above the consciousness of pain, he felt
upon his face the soft touch of a woman's hair.
The sun that day went down and left Minas Basin in the cool, clear air
of a summer night. Blomidon lay dark against the western heavens,
pointing on the one side to the open waters of the Bay of Fundy, whose
bosom is a mighty tide with forces never at rest; and on the other hand
to the marshes of the Grand-Pré shore, full of the fate of a people.