The Rocks of Valpré | Page 8

stones rattled continually
from beneath his feet; but he clung like a limpet, nothing daunted, and
at last his hands were gripped in the coarse grass that fringed the
summit. Sheer depth was below him, and the inward-curving cliff
offered no possibility of foothold.
He stood, gathering his strength for a last stupendous effort. It was a
supreme moment. It meant abandoning the support on which he stood
and depending entirely upon the strength of his arms to attain to safety.
The risk was desperate. He stood bracing himself to take it.
Finally, with an upward fling of the head, as of one who diced with the
gods, he gripped that perilous edge and dared the final throw. Slowly,
with stupendous effort, he hoisted himself up. It was the work of an
expert athlete; none other would have attempted it.
Up he went and up, steadily, strongly; his head came level with his
hands; he peered over the edge of the cliff. The strain was terrific. The
careless smile was gone from his lips. In that instant he no longer
ignored what lay behind him; he knew the suspense of the gambler who
pauses after he has thrown before he lifts the dice-box to read his fate.
Up, and still up! The grass was beginning to yield in his clutching
fingers; he dug them into the earth below. Now his shoulders were

above the edge; his chest also, heaving with strenuous effort. To lower
himself again was impossible. His feet dangled over space. And the
surging of the water below him was as the roaring of an angry monster
cheated of its prey.
He set his teeth. He was nearing the end of his strength. Had he, after
all, attempted the impossible, flung the dice too recklessly, dared his
fate too far? If so, he would pay the penalty swiftly, swiftly, down
among the cruel rocks where many another had perished before him.
The surging sounded louder. It seemed to be in his brain. It bewildered
him, deprived him of the power to think. A great many voices seemed
to clamour around him, but only one could be clearly heard; only one,
and that the voice of a child close to him--or was that also an illusion
born of the racking strain that had driven all the blood to his head?
"You won't fail me, will you?" it said.
Surely his grasp was slackening, his powers were passing, when like a
flashlight those words illuminated his brain. He was as one in deep
waters, swamped and sinking; but that voice called him back.
He opened his eyes, he drew a great breath. He flung his whole soul
into one last great effort. He remembered suddenly that the little
English girl, the child with the glorious hair and laughing eyes, his
acquaintance of an hour, would be looking for him exactly two weeks
from that moment. He was sure she would look, and--she would be
disappointed if she looked in vain. One must not disappoint a child.
The memory of her went through him, vivid, enchanting, compelling. It
nerved his sinking heart. It renewed his grip on life. It urged him
upwards.
Only a child! Only a child! But yet--
"I shall not--shall not--fail you!" he gasped, and with the words his
knees reached the top of the cliff.

His strength collapsed instantly, like the snapping of a fiddle-string. He
fell forward on his face, and lay prone...
A little later he worked the whole of his body into security, rolled over
on his back with closed eyes to the sky, and waited while his heart
slowed down to its normal rhythmic beat.
At last, quite suddenly, he sat up and looked around him. The laughter
flashed back into his eyes. He sprang to his feet, mud-stained,
dishevelled, yet exultant.
He clicked his heels together and faced the sinking sun, slim and
upright, one stiff hand to his head. He had diced with the gods, and he
had won.
"_Destinée! Je te salue!_" he said, and the next instant whizzed smartly
round with a soldier's precision of movement and marched away
towards the fortress that crowned the hill above the rocks of Valpré.

CHAPTER III
A ROPE OF SAND
Undoubtedly Mademoiselle Gautier was querulous, and equally
without doubt she had good reason to be so; but it made it a little dull
for Chris. Accidents would happen, wherever one went, and what was
the good of making a fuss?
Of course, every allowance had to be made for poor Mademoiselle in
consideration of the fact that she was torn in pieces by the valiant
attempt to keep her attention focussed upon three children at once. The
effort had not so far been a brilliant success, and Mademoiselle,
conscious within herself of her