Lawrence smiled.  “My object is to keep on going farther than I did before, and I don’t see why the log should bother me.  It’s my legs that are weak—­not my head.”

“Very well,” said the other.  “I’ll go first and Miss Chisholm will come next.”

“Am I to be encouraged or shamed into crossing?” Lawrence asked with a laugh.

He let them go, and Lucy did not object.  Lawrence was not well yet, but she had seen him climb among the crevasses and knew his steadiness.  Then, although she did not know how much this counted, she was proud of his courage and forgot that physical weakness sometimes affects one’s nerve.  Walters could not harm him, because he was not near enough.

When the first two had gone over, Lawrence walked out upon the log.  Lucy was not afraid, but she watched and remarked that he seemed unusually careful.  After a few paces, he moved slowly, and when near the middle stopped.  She saw him clench his hands as he tried to brace himself.

“Go on, Lawrence,” she said, as quietly as she could.

He moved another pace or two uncertainly, and then stopped again, and Lucy struggled with her terror as she tried to think.  If he were well, it would not be difficult to turn and come back, or sit upon the log, but either would be dangerous if his nerve had gone.  She had failed to rouse him and durst not try again.  If he slipped or stumbled, he would plunge into the canon.  It was horrible to reflect that she had allowed him to make the venture.  Then, throwing off the numbing fear, she sprang to her feet.

“Stand quite still; I’m coming to help you,” she said in a strained voice and went towards the log.

Next moment she was seized from behind, and Walters ran past.  She struggled fiercely, biting her lips as she stopped the scream that might startle her lover, and heard the man who held her breathing hard.  But he held her firmly and she stopped struggling, with a paralyzing horror that made her muscles limp.  Still, she could see and think, and the scene fixed itself upon her brain like a photograph; long afterwards she could remember each minute detail.

The log occupied the foreground of the picture, running boldly across the gap in the pines, with a shadowy gulf beneath.  Near the middle, Lawrence stood slackly, with his back to her, and behind him Walters walked across the trunk.  His step was firm and agile, his figure well-proportioned and athletic, and it was somehow obvious that he relished the opportunity of showing his powers.  Afterwards, she hated him for his vanity.

It was plain that little physical help could be given.  All that was possible was moral support; a firm, guiding grasp that would restore the shaken man’s confidence, and the comfort of feeling there was somebody near who was not afraid.  But a very slight push the wrong way, or even an unsteadiness in the hand that should have guided, might be fatal.  Lawrence was at the mercy of a man who had plotted to destroy him and could do so now without risk.  Lucy could not warn him, because if he were startled, he would fall.  Waiting in an agony of suspense, she saw Walters grasp his shoulder.