Van knew she was rather near at hand.  The bridge and trail were certainly no more than twenty-five feet above his head.  He could make her hear with little effort.

“Brace up and keep your nerve,” he instructed.  “We’re O.K. up to date.  Just ride ahead till you come to the flat.  Let Elsa hold your mare.  Can you hear me plainly?”

“Oh! yes—­yes—­then what next?” replied the worried girl.

Van resumed calmly:  “You’ll find a rawhide rope on Elsa’s saddle.  Come back with that, on foot.  Then I’ll tell you what to do.  Don’t try to hurry; take your time, and don’t worry.”  After a moment, as he got no reply, he added:  “Have you started?”

Beth had not budged her mare, for terror of what she must do.  She was fortifying all her resolution.  She answered with genuine bravery: 

“Yes—­I—­I’ll do what you say.”

She took up the reins.  Her pale face was set, but she did not close her eyes to cross the dizzying brink.  The mare went forward—­and Elsa’s bay resumed his patient tagging, up to and past the fateful place where a part of the shelf-edge, having been dislodged, had let Van’s pony fall.

For ten age-long minutes Van waited on his ledge, feeling the treacherous, rotted stuff break silently away beneath his feet.  The shrub, too, was showing an earthy bit of root as it slowly but certainly relinquished its hold on the substance which the crevice had divided.  The man could almost have calculated how many seconds the shelf and the shrub could sustain their living burden.

Then Beth returned.  She had left her maid with the horses; she held the lasso in her hand.  To creep on foot along the granite bridge was taxing the utmost of her courage.  She could not ascertain precisely where it was that the horseman was waiting below.  She was guided only by the broken ledge, where pony and all had disappeared.  Therefore, she called to him weakly.

“Mr. Van—­Mr. Van—­where are you?”

Van’s heart turned over in his breast.

“Just below that split boulder in the trail,” he answered cheerily.  “Go to that.”

A silence succeeded, then he heard, in tremulous accents: 

“I’m here—­but how am I going to tie the rope?”

Van answered distinctly, for much depended on precision.

“Uncoil it first.  On one end there’s an eye that runs the loop.  Open the loop to a pretty good size and slip it over the smaller portion of the boulder.  Then push it well down in the crevice, and pull it tight.”

He knew that the rope was far too short to loop the larger rock and reach his hands.  He waited while he thought she might be working—­as indeed she was—­and presently added:  “Got that done?”

“Yes,” she called.  “Yes—­but are you sure——­”

His hold was giving way.  He answered crisply: 

“Now drop me the end.  Don’t wait!”

[Illustration:  His hold was giving way.]