a fall
almost certain. It was easier to climb than to descend.

Gilliatt's movements were decisive, as are those of all good sailors. He
never wasted force. He always proportioned his efforts to the work in
hand. Hence the prodigies of strength which he executed with ordinary
muscles. His biceps were no more powerful than that of ordinary men; but
his heart was firmer. He added, in fact, to strength which is physical,
energy which belongs to the moral faculties.

The feat to be accomplished was appalling.

It was to cross the space between the two Douvres, hanging only by this
slender line.

Oftentimes in the path of duty and devotedness, the figure of death
rises before men to present these terrible questions:

Wilt thou do this? asks the shadow.

Gilliatt tested the cord again; the grappling-iron held firm.

Wrapping his left hand in his handkerchief, he grasped the knotted cord
with his right hand, which he covered with his left; then stretching out
one foot, and striking out sharply with the other against the rock, in
order that the impetus might prevent the rope twisting, he precipitated
himself from the height of the Little Douvre on to the escarpment of the
great one.

The shock was severe.

There was a rebound.

His clenched fists struck the rocks in their turn; the handkerchief had
loosened, and they were scratched; they had indeed narrowly escaped
being crushed.

Gilliatt remained hanging there a moment dizzy.

He was sufficiently master of himself not to let go his hold of the
cord.

A few moments passed in jerks and oscillations before he could catch the
cord with his feet; but he succeeded at last.

Recovering himself, and holding the cord at last between his naked feet
as with two hands, he gazed into the depth below.

He had no anxiety about the length of the cord, which had many a time
served him for great heights. The cord, in fact, trailed upon the deck
of the Durande.

Assured of being able to descend again, he began to climb hand over
hand, and still clinging with his feet.

In a few moments he had gained the summit.

Never before had any creature without wings found a footing there. The
plateau was covered in parts with the dung of birds. It was an irregular
trapezium, a mass struck off from the colossal granitic prism of the
Great Douvre. This block was hollowed in the centre like a basin--a work
of the rain.

Gilliatt, in fact, had guessed correctly.

At the southern an