At almost
any other spot his tumble might have meant--
Cyril shuddered a little; and pursued the grisly theme no
further. He was safe enough, till help should come. And, here,
the blast of the wind did not reach him. Also, by cuddling low in
the litter of leaves and fallen brush, he could ward off a little
of the icy cold.
He crouched there; shaking and worn out. He was only eleven. His
fragile body had undergone a fearful hour of toil and hardship.
As he was drawing in his breath for a cry to any chance
searchers, the boy was aware of a swift pattering, above his
head. He looked up. The sky was shade or two less densely black
than the ravine edge. As Cyril gazed in terror, a shaggy dark
shape outlined itself against the sky-line, just above him.
Having followed the eccentric footsteps of the wanderer, with
great and greater difficulty, to the fence-lee where the tracing
was much easier, Lad came to the lip of the ravine a bare five
minutes after the child's drop to the ledge.
There, for an instant, the great dog stood; ears cocked, head
inquiringly on one side; looking down upon the ledge.
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