"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.