inst the rock above the Bisse with an extended
hand. Halfway the rock fell back, so that there was nothing whatever
to hold. He stopped, hesitating whether he should go back--but on
this plank there was no going back because no turning round seemed
practicable. While he was still hesitating there came a helpful
intervention. Behind him he saw a peasant appearing and disappearing
behind trees and projecting rock masses, and coming across the previous
plank at a vigorous trot....

Under the stimulus of a spectator Benham got to the end of this third
place without much trouble. Then very politely he stood aside for the
expert to go ahead so that he could follow at his own pace.

There were, however, more difficulties yet to come, and a disagreeable
humiliation. That confounded peasant developed a parental solicitude.
After each crossing he waited, and presently began to offer advice and
encouragement. At last came a place where everything was overhanging,
where the Bisse was leaking, and the plank wet and slippery. The water
ran out of the leak near the brim of the wooden channel and fell in a
long shivering thread of silver. THERE WAS NO SOUND OF ITS FALL. It just
fell--into a void. Benham wished he had not noted that. He groaned, but
faced the plank; he knew this would be the slowest affair of all.

The peasant surveyed him from the further side.

"Don't be afraid!" cried the peasant in his clumsy Valaisian French,
and returned, returning along the plank that seemed quite sufficiently
loaded without him, extending a charitable hand.

"Damn!" whispered Benham, but he took the hand.

Afterwards, rather ignobly, he tried to explain in his public-school
French. "Pas de peur," he said. "Pas de peur. Mais la tete, n'a pas
l'habitude."

The peasant, failing to understand, assured him again that there was no
danger.

("Damn!")

Benham was led over all the other planks, he was led as if he was an
old lady crossing a glacier. He was led into absolute safety, and
shamefacedly he rewarded his guide. Then he went a little way and sat
down, swore softly, and watched the honest man go striding and plunging
down towards Lens until he was out of sight.

"Now," said Benham to himself, "if I do not go back along the planks my
secret honour is gone for ever."

He told himself that he had not a good head, that he was not well, that
the sun was setting and the light no longer good, that he had a very
good chance indeed of gettin