good foothold and stared up, catching breath before he hailed.

Her first glimpse of him, as she held the blazing stick over the edge of
the fall, was of a face damp with sweat or with spray, and of his hands
reaching up the slimed rock, feeling for a grip.

"Ah, be careful! Shall I come down to you?" For the first time she
realised his peril.

"_Over rocks that are steepest_," he quoted gaily, between grunts of
hard breathing. He had handhold now. "Hero on her tower--and faith,
Leander came near to swimming for it--once or twice" (grunt) "_Over the
mountains, And over the waves_--hullo! that rock of yours overhangs.
What's to the left?" (grunt) "Grass? I mistrust grass on these ledges.
. . . Reach down your hand, dear Ruth, to steady me only. . . ."

She flung herself prone on the flat rock beside the fire, and gave a
hand to him. He caught it, heaved himself over the ledge with a final
grunt of triumph, and dropped beside her, panting and laughing.

"You might have killed yourself!" she shivered.

"And whom, then, would you have reproached?"

"You might have killed yourself--and then--and then I think I should
have died too."

"Ruth!"

"My lord will be hungry. He shall rest here and eat."

He flung a glance towards the cabin; or rather--for the dusk hid its
outlines--towards the light that shone cosily through the window-hatch.

"Not yet!" she murmured. "My lord shall rest here for a while."
She was kneeling now to draw off his shoes. He drew away his foot,
protesting.

"Child, I am not so tired, but out of breath, and--yes--hungry as a
hunter."

"My lord will remember. It was the first service I ever did for him."
It may have been an innocent wile to anchor him fast there and helpless.
. . . At any rate she knelt, and drew off his shoes and carried them to
a little distance. "Next, my lord shall eat," she said; and having
rinsed her hands in the stream and spread them a moment to the flame to
dry, sped off to the cabin.

In a minute she was back with glasses and clean napkins, knives, forks,
spoons, and a bottle of wine; from a second visit she returned with
plates, condiments, and a dish of fruit. Then, running to the
cooking-pot, she fetched soup in two bowls. "And after that," she
promised, "there will be partridges. Mr. Strongtharm shot them for me,
for I was too busy. They are turning by the fire on a jack my mother
taught me to make out of threads that untwist and twist again.