Текст книги "The Seventh Scroll"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

Nicholas heard movement on his flank and glanced in that direction,

still keeping the shufta in his peripheral vision.

Another guerrilla stepped out of the scrub. He was all: similarly

dressed, but he carried a Soviet RPD light machine gun on his hip. The

barrel was sawn off short to make the weapon more handy for bush

fighting, and there was a loop of ammunition belt draped around his

neck. He came forward carefully, the RPD aimed point-blank at the two

women. Nicholas knew that, with a touch on the trigger, he could chop

them both to mincemeat.

There were other stealthy rustling sounds in the bush all around them.

These two were not the only ones, Nicholas realized. This was a large

war party. He might be able to get off one shot with the Rigby, but by

then Royan and Tessay would be dead. And he would not be far behind

them.

Very slowly and deliberately he lowered the muzzle of the rifle until it

was pointing at the ground. Then he laid the weapon down and raised his

hands.

"Get your hands up," he told the women. "Do exactly what they tell you."

The guerrilla leader acknowledged his surrender by coming to his full

height and speaking rapidly to his men, still in Arabic.

"Get the rifle and his pack."

"We are British subjects," Nicholas told him loudly, and the guerrilla

looked surprised by his use of Arabic. "We are simple tourists. We are

not military. We are not government people."

Be quiet. Shut your face!" he ordered, as the rest of the guerrilla

patrol emerged from cover. Nicholas counted five of them all told,

though he knew there were probably others who had not come forward. They

were very professional as they rounded up their prisoners. They never

blocked each other's field of fire, nor offered an opportunity of

escape. Quickly they searched them for weapons, then closed in around

them and hustled them on to the path.

"Where are you taking us?"Nicholas demanded.

"No questions!" The butt of an AK-47 smashed between his shoulder blades

and almost knocked him off his feet.

"Steady on, chaps," he murmured mildly in English.

"That wasn't really called for."

They were forced to keep marching through the heat of the afternoon.

Nicholas kept a check on the position of the sun and the distant

glimpses of the escarpment wall.

He realized that they were heading westwards, following the course of

the Nile towards the Sudanese border. It was late afternoon, and

Nicholas estimated that they had covered some ten miles, before they

came upon a side shoot of the main valley. The slopes were heavily

wooded, and the three prisoners were herded into a patch of this forest.

They were actually within the perimeter of the guerrilla camp before

they were aware of its existence. Cunningly camouflaged, it consisted

merely of a few crude lean, to shelters and a ring of weapons

emplacements. The sentries were well placed, and all the light machine

guns in the foxholes were manned.

They were led to one of the shelters in the centre of the camp, where

three men were squatting around a map spread on a low camp table. These

were obviously officers, and there was no mistaking which of the three

was the commander. The leader of the patrol which had captured them went

to this man, saluted him deferentially and then spoke to him urgently,

pointing at his captives.

The guerrilla commander straightened up from the table, and came out

into the sunlight. He was of medium height, but was imbued with such an

air of authority that he seemed taller. His shoulders were broad and his

body square and chunky, with the beginning of a dignified spread around

the waist. He wore a short curly beard which contained a few strands of

grey, and his features were refined and handsome. His skin tones were

amber and copper. His dark eyes were intelligent, his gaze quick and

restless.

"My men tell me that you speak Arabic," he said to -Nicholas.

"Better than you do, Mek Nimmur,'Nicholas told him.

"So now you are the leader of a bunch of bandits and kidnappers? I

always told you that you would never get to heaven, you old reprobate."

Mek Nimmur stared at him in astonishment, and then began to smile.

"Nicholas! I did not recognize you. You are older. Look at the grey on

your head!'

He opened his arms wide and folded Nicholas into a bear hug.

"Nicholas! Nicholas!" He kissed him once on each cheek. Then he held him

at arm's length and looked at the two women, who were standing amazed.

"He saved my life," he explained to them.

"You make me blush, Mek." Mek kissed him again' "He saved my life

twice."

"Once," Nicholas contradicted him. "The second time was a mistake. I

should have let them shoot you."

Mek laughed delightedly. "How long ago was it, Nicholas?"

"It doesn't bear thinking about."

"Fifteen years ago at least,'.Mek said. "Are you still in the British

army? What is your rank? You must be a general by now!'

"Reserves only," Nicholas shook his head. "I have been back in civvy

street a long time now."

Still hugging Nicholas, Mek Nimmur looked at the women with interest.

"Nicholas taught me most of what I know about soldiering," he told them.

His eyes flicked from Royan to Tessay, and then stayed on the Ethiopian

girl's dark and lovely face.

"I know you," he said. "I saw you in Addis, years ago.

You were a young girl then. Your father was Alto Zemen, a great and good

man. He was murdered by the tyrant Mengistu."

"I know you also, Alto Mek. My father held you in high esteem. There are

many of us who believe that you should be the president of this Ethiopia

of ours, in place of that other one." She dropped him a graceful little

curtsey, hanging her head in a shy but appealing gesture of respect.

"I am flattered by your opinion of me." He took her hand and lifted her

to her full height. Then he turned back to Nicholas, "I am sorry for the

rough welcome, Some of my men are over-enthusiastic. I knew that there

were ferengi asking questions at the monastery. But enough, you are with

friends here. I bid you welcome."

Mek Nimmur led them to his shelter, where one of his men brought a

soot-blackened kettle from the fire and poured viscous black coffee into

mugs for them.

He and Nicholas plunged into reminiscences of the days prior to the

Falklands war when they had fought side by side, Nicholas as a covert

military adviser, and Mek as a young freedom fighter opposing the

tyranny of Mengistu.

"But the war is over now, Mek, Nicholas remonstrated at last. "The

battle is won. Why are you still out in the bush with your men? Why

aren't you getting rich and fat in Addis, like all the others?"

"In the interim government in Addis there are enemies Of mine, men like

Mengistu. When we have got rid of them, then I will come out of the

bush."

He and Nicholas embarked into a spirited discussion of African politics,

so deep and complicated that Royan knew very few of the personalities

whom they were discussing. Nor could she follow the nuances and the

subtlety of religious and tribal prejudices and intolerance that had

persisted for a thousand years. She was, however, impressed by

Nicholas's knowledge and understanding of the situation, and the way in

which a man like Mek Nimmur asked his opinion and listened to his

advice.

In the end Nicholas asked him, "So now you have carried the war beyond

the borders of Ethiopia itself? You are operating in Sudan, as well?"

"The war in the Sudan has been raging for twenty years," Mek confirmed.

"The Christians in the south fighting against the persecution of the

Moslem nor the-"

"I am well aware of that, Mek. But that is not Ethiopia.

It's not your war."

"They are Christians, and they suffer injustice. I am a soldier and a

Christian. Of course it is my war." Tessay had ty to every word that Mek

spoke, and been listening avid now she nodded her head in agreement, her

eyes dark and solemn with hero worship.

"Alto Mek is a crusader for Christ and the rights of the common

man,'Tessa told Nicholas in awed tones.

"And he dearly loves a good fight," Nicholas laughed, punching his

shoulder affectionately. It was a familiar gesture which could easily

have given offence, but Mek accepted it readily and laughed back at him.

"What are you doing here yourself, Nicholas, if you are no longer a

soldier? There was a time when you also loved a good fight."

"I am completely reformed. No more fighting. I have come to the Abbay

gorge to hunt dik-dik."

"Dik-dik?l Mek Nimmur stared at him with disbelief, and then he roared

with laughter. "I don't believe it. Not you. Not dik-dik. You are up to

something."

"It is the truth."

"You are lying, Nicholas. You never could lie to me. I know you too

well. You are up to something. You will tell me about it when you need

my help."

"And you will still give me your help?"

"Of course. You saved my life twice."

"Once,'said Nicholas.

"Even once is enough," said Mek Nimmur.

while they talked, the sun slanted down the sky.

"You are my guests for tonight," Mek Nimmur told them formally. "In the

morning I will escort you back to your camp at the monastery of St..

Frumentius.

That is also my destination. My men and I are going to the monastery to

celebrate the festival of Timkat– The abbot, Jali Hora, is a friend and

an ally."

"And the monastery is probably your deep cover base.

You use it and the monks for resupply and intelligence.

Am I right?"

"You know me too well, Nicholas."Mek Nimmur shook his head ruefully.

"You taught me much of what I know, so why should you not be able to

guess my strategy? The monastery makes a perfect base of operations.

It's close enough to the border-' he broke off, smiling. "But there is

no need to explain it to you, of all people."

Mek had his men build a night shelter for Nicholas and Royan, and cut a

mattress of grass to cushion their sleep. They lay close together under

the flimsy roof. The night was sultry, and they did not miss their

blankets.

Nicholas had a tube of insect repellent in his pack to keep the

mosquitoes at bay After they had settled down on the grass mattress,

their heads were close enough together to allow them to converse in

quiet tones. When he turned his head Nicholas could see the dark

silhouettes of Mek Nimmur and Tessay still sitting close together by the

fire.

"Ethiopian girls are different from the Arabs, and from most other

African women." Royan too was watching the other couple. "No Arab girl

would dare be alone with a man like that. Especially if she were a

married woman."

"Any way you cut it, they make a damned fine pair," he gave his opinion.

"Good luck to them. Tessay hasn't had much of that lately – she is

overdue."

He turned his head and looked into her face, "What about you, Royan,

what are you? Are you a decorous, submissive Arab, or an independent,

assertive Western girl?"

"It's both a little early and much too late for intimate questions of

that nature," she told him, and turned over, presenting him with her

back.

"Ah, we are standing on ceremony this evening!

Goodnight, Woizero Royan."

"Goodnight, Alto Nicholas," she replied, keeping her face turned away

from him so that he could not see her smile.

The gorilla column moved out before dawn the next morning. They marched

in full battle order, with scouts moving ahead and flankers covering

each side of the path.

"The army come down here into the gorge very seldom, but we are always

ready for them when they do come," Mek Nimmur explained. "We try to give

them a hearty welcome."

Tessay was watching Mek Nimmur as he spoke; indeed, she had seldom taken

her eyes off him that morning. Now she murmured to Royan, "He is a truly

great man, a man who could unite our land, perhaps for the first time in

a thousand years. I feel humble in his presence, and yet I also feel

like a young girl again, filled with joy and hope."

The march back to the monastery took the entire morning. When they came

in sight of the Dandera. river, Mek Nimmur drew his men back off the

path into thick bush, while sending only one scout forward. After an

hour's wait, a party of acolytes came up from the monastery, each

carrying a large bundle balanced upon his head.

They greeted Mek with deep reverence, and handed over their bundles to

his men before returning down the pathway into the gorge of the Abbay.

The bundles contained priestly shammas, headcloths and sandals. Mek's

men changed out of their camouflage fatigues into these garments, all of

which were well worn and unwashed for the sake of authenticity. They

wore only their sidearms under the robes. All their other weapons and

equipment they cached in one of the caves in the limestone Cliffs, and

left a detachment to guard them.

Now as a party of monks they covered the last few miles to the

monastery, to be welcomed joyously by the community there. Here Nicholas

and the women left Mek, and climbed the steep path up into the grove of

wild fig trees. Boris was waiting for them, pacing about the camp, angry

and frustrated.

"Where the hell have you been, woman?" he snarled at Tessay. "Been

whoring around all night, have you?"

"We lost our way yesterday evening." Nicholas fed him the cover story

that they had agreed with Mek Nimmur, to maintain his security. Boris

was hardly the man to trust.

"And we were picked up by a party of monks from the monastery this

morning. They brought us back."

"You are the big hunter and tracker, are you?" Boris sneered at him.

"You didn't need me to guide you, hey? You got yourself lost, did you,

English? I see now why you want only to shoot dik-dik." He guffawed

without humour, and looked at Tessay with those pale dead eyes. "I will

talk to you later, woman. Go and see to the food."

Despite the heat, both Nicholas and Royan were hungry. In short order,

Tessay was able to serve a tasty cold lunch under the shady branches of

the fig trees. Nicholas refused the wine that Boris offered him.

want to go out hunting again this afternoon. I have lost almost a whole

day."

"You want me to hold your hand this time, English?

Make sure you don't lose yourself again?"

"Thanks, old chap, but I think I can manage without you."

While they ate Nicholas nudged Royan and told her, "Your admirer has

arrived."

He jerked his head at the lanky, ungainly figure of Tamre, who had

sneaked up quietly and was now sitting near the kitchen hut, As soon as

Royan looked at him his face split into a doting idiotic grin, and he

bobbed his head and squirmed with ecstatic shyness.

"I will not come with you this afternoon," Royan told Nicholas quietly,

when Boris was not listening. "I think there is going to be trouble

between him and Tessay. I want to stay here with her. Take Tamre with

you."

"My word, what an attractive alternative. All my life I have waited for

this moment." But when he had picked up his rifle and pack, he beckoned

the boy to follow him.

Tamre looked around eagerly for Royan, but she was in her hut. At last,

dragging his feet, he followed Nicholas up the valley.

"Take me to the other side of the river," he told the boy. "Show me how

to reach the side where the holy creature lives." Tamre perked up at the

prospect, and broke into a shambling trot as he led Nicholas over the

suspension bridge below the pink cliffs.

For an hour they followed the path, but gradually it petered out until

it ended in bad and broken ground amongst the erosion'carved hills.

Undeterred, Tamre plunged into the thorny scrub, and for another two

hours they scrambled over rocky ridges and through thorn-choked valleys.

"I can see why you didn't want to bring Royan this way here. You will

not move. You will not speak. You will even breathe very, very quietly,

until I come back to fetch you.

If you utter even one little prayer before I return, I will personally

start you on your journey to meet St.. Peter at the gates of heaven. Do

you understand me?"

He went forward alone, but the little antelope was thoroughly alarmed by

now Nicholas saw it twice more, but he only had fleeting glimpses of

ruddy brown movement almost entirely screened by bush. He stood

directing bitter imprecations towards the boy monk and listening to the

tick of small hooves on dry earth as it raced away, deeper into the

thickets. In the end he was forced to give up the hunt for that day.

It was after dark when he and Tamre got back to camp.

As soon as Nicholas stepped into the circle of firelight, Royan came to

meet him.

"What happened?" she asked. "Did you see the dik-dik again?"

"Don't ask me. Ask your accomplice. He scared it off.

It is probably still running."

"Tamre,'you are a fine young man, and I am very proud of you," she told

him. The boy wriggled like a puppy, giggling and hugging himself with

the joy of her approval as he scurried away down the path to the

monastery.

Royan was so pleased with the outcome of the hunt that she poured

Nicholas a whisky with her own hand and brought it to him as he sagged

wearily by the fire.

He tasted it and shuddered, "Never let a teetotaller pour for you. With

a heavy hand like that you should take UP tossing the caber or

blacksmithing." Despite the complaint, he took another tentative sip.

She sat close to him, fidgeting with excitement, but it was a while

before he became aware of her agitation.

"What is it? Something is eating you alive."

She threw a cautionary glance in the direction of where Boris sat on the

opposite side of the fire, and then dropped her voice, leaned close to

him and spoke in Arabic.

"Tessay and I went down to the monastery this afternoon to see Mek

Nimmur. Tessay asked me to go with her, just in case Boris – well, you

know what I mean."

"I have a vague idea. You were playing chaperone." Nicholas took another

sip of the whisky and gasped. He exhaled sharply and his voice was

husky. "Go on," he invited her.

"At one stage, before I left them alone together, we were discussing the

festival of Timkat. On the fifth day the abbot takes the tabot down to

the Abbay. Mek tells us there is a path down the cLiff to the water's

edge."

"Yes, we know that."

"This is the interesting part – this you didn't know.

Everybody joins the procession down to the river. Everybody. The abbot,

all the priests, the acolytes, every true believer, even Mek and all his

men, they all go down to the river and stay there overnight. For one

whole day and night the monastery is deserted. Empty. Nobody there at

all."

He stared at her over the rim of his glass, and then slowly he began to

smile, "Now that is very interesting indeed," he admitted.

"Don't forget, I am coming with you," she told him severely. "Don't you

dare to even think of leaving me behind."

Nicholas went to her hut again that evening after dinner. This was the

only place in camp where they could be sure of privacy, and where they

were safe from eavesdropping. However, this time he did not make the

mistake of sitting on her bed.

While she perched on the end of it, he took the stool opposite her.

"Before we start planning this thing, let me ask you one question. Have

you considered the possible consequences?"

"You mean, what happens if the monks catch us at it?" Royan asked.

"At the very least we can expect them to run us out of the valley. The

abbot has a tremendous amount of power.

At the worst we can be physically attacked," Nicholas told her. "This is

one of the most sacred sites in their religion, and don't underestimate

that fact. There is a great deal of danger involved. It could go as far

as a knife between the ribs, or something nasty in our food."

"We would also alienate Tessay. She is a deeply religious woman,'Royan

added.

"Even more importantly, we would probably outrage Mek Nimmur as well."

Nicholas looked distressed at the thought. "I don't know what he would

do, but I don't think our friendship would stand the test."

They were both quiet for a while, considering the cost that they might

have to pay. Nicholas broke the silence.

"Then again, have you considered your own position?

After all, it is your own Church that we will be desecrating.

You are a committed Christian. Can you justify this to yourself?"

"I have thought about it, she admitted. "And I am not altogether happy

about it, but it isn't really my Church. It's a different branch of the

Coptic Church."

"Splitting hairs, aren't we?"

"The Egyptian Church does not deny anyone access to even the most sacred

precincts of its church building. I do not feel myself bound by the

abbot's prohibition. I feel that as a believing Christian I have the

right to enter any part of the cathedral that I wish."

He whistled softly, "And you are the one who once said that I should

have been a lawyer."

"Please don't, Nicky. It's not something you should joke about. All I

know is that, no matter what, I have to go in there. Even if I die to do

it."

"You could let me do it for you," he suggested. "After all, I am an old

heathen. It would not spoil my chances of salvation. I don't have any."

"No." She shook her head firmly. "If there is an inscription or

something of that nature, I need to see it.

You read hieroglyphics quite well, but not as well as I do, and you

don't know the hieratic script. I am the expert you are just a gifted

amateur. You need me. I am going in there with you."

"All right. That is settled, then," he said with finality.

"Let's start planning. We had better draw up a list of equipment that we

may need. Flashlight, knife, Polaroid camera, spare film-'

"Art paper and soft pencils to lift an impression of any inscriptions,'

she added to the list.

"Hell!" He snapped his fingers with chagrin. "I didn't think to bring

any."

"See what I mean? Amateur. I did."

They talked on until late, and at last Nicholas glanced at his

wrist-watch and stood up.

"Long after midnight. I am scheduled to turn into a pumpkin at any

moment. Goodnight."

"There are still two days of the festival before the tabot is taken down

to the river. Nothing we can do until then.

What are your plans

"Tomorrow I am going back after that damned little Bambi. It has made a

fool of me twice already."

"I am coming with you," she said firmly, and that simple declaration

gave him a disproportionate amount of pleasure.

"Just as long as you leave Tamre at home," he warned her as he stooped

out through the door.

The tiny antelope stepped out from the deep shadow of the thorn thicket,

and the early morning sunlight gleamed on the silky pelt, It kept

walking steadily across the narrow clearing.

Nicholas's breathing quickened with excitement as he followed it with

the telescopic sight. It was ridiculous that he should feel so wrought

up with the hunting of such a humble little animal, but his previous

failures had sharpened his anticipation. Added to that was the peculiar

passion that drives the true collector. Since he had lost Rosalind and

the girls, he had thrown all his energy into the building up of the

collection at Quenton Park. Now, suddenly, procuring this specimen for

it had become a matter of supreme importance to him.

His forefinger rested lightly on the side of the trigger guard. He would

not fire until the dik-dik came to a standstill. Even that walking pace

would make the shot uncertain. He had to place his bullet precisely, to

kill swiftly but at the same time to inflict the least possible damage

to the skin.

To this end he had loaded the Rigby with full metal jacket bullets -

ones that would not expand on impact and open a wide wound channel, nor

rip out a gaping hole in the coat as they exited. These solid bullets

would punch a tiny hole the size of a pencil that the taxidermist at the

museum would be able to repair invisibly.

He felt his nerves screwing up as he realized that the dik-dik was not

going to stop in the open. It made steadily for the thick scrub on the

far side of the clearing. This might be his last chance. He fought the

temptation to take the shot at the moving target, and it required an

effort of will to lift his finger off the trigger again.

The antelope reached the wall of thorn scrub -and, the moment before it

disappeared, stopped abruptly and thrust its tiny head into the depths

of one of the low bushes.

Standing broadside to Nicholas, it began to nibble at the pate green

tufts of new leaves. The head was screened, so he had to abandon his

intention of going for that shot.

However, the shoulder was exposed. He could make out the clear outline

of the blade beneath the glossy red-brown skin. The dik-dik was angled

slightly away from him, in the perfect position for the heart shot,

tucked in low behind the shoulder.

Unhurriedly he settled the reticule of the scope on the precise spot,

and squeezed the trigger.

The shot whip-cracked in the heavy heated air and the tiny antelope

bounded high, coming down to touch the earth already at a full run. Like

a rapier rather than a cutlass, the solid bullet had not struck with

sufficient shock to knock the dik-dik over. Head down, the dik-dik

dashed away in the typical frantic reaction to a bullet through the

heart. It was dead already, running only on the last dregs of oxygen in

its bloodstream.

"Oh, no! Not that way," Nicholas cried as he jumped to his feet. The

tiny creature was racing straight towards the lip of the cliff. Blindly

leaped out into empty space and flipped into a somersault as it fell,

dropping from their sight, down almost two hundred feet into the chasm

of the Dandera river.

"That was a filthy bit of luck." Nicholas jumped over the bush that had

hidden them and ran to the rim of the chasm. Royan followed him and the

two of them stood peering down into the giddy void.

"There it is!" She pointed, and he nodded. "Yes, I can see it."

The carcass lay directly below them, caught on an islet of rock in the

middle of the stream.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'll have to go down and get it." He straightened up and stepped back

from the brink. "Fortunately it's still early.

We have plenty of time to get the job done before dark.

I'll have to go back to camp to fetch the rope and to get some help."

It was afternoon before they returned, panied by Boris, both his

trackers and two of the skinners. They brought with them four coils of

nylon rope.

Nicholas leaned out over the cliff and grunted with relief "Well, the

carcass is still down there. I had visions of it being washed away." He

supervised the trackers as they uncoiled the rope and laid it out down

the length of the clearing.

"We will need two coils of it to get down to the bottom he estimated

and joined them, painstakingly tying and checking the knot himself. Then

he plumbed the drop, lowering the end of the rope down the cliff until

it touch the surface of the water, and then hauling it back  and

measuring it between the spread of his arms.

"Thirty fathoms. One hundred and eighty feet. I won't be able to climb

back that high," he told Boris. "You and your gang will have to haul me

back up."

He anchored the rope end with a bowline to the hole of one of the wiry

thorn trees. Then he again tested it meticulously, getting all four of

the trackers and skinners to heave on it with their combined weight.

"That should do it," he gave his opinion as he stripped to his shirt and

khaki shorts and pulled off his chukka boots. On the tip of the cliff he

leaned out backwards with the rope draped over his shoulder and the tail

brought back between his legs in the classic. absed style.

"Coming in on a wing and a prayerP he said, and jumped out backwards

into the chasm. He controlled his fall by allowing the rope to pay out

over his shoulder, braking with the turn over his thigh, swinging like a

pendulum and kicking himself off the rock wall with both feet. He went

down swiftly until his feet dangled into the rush of water, and the

current pushed him into a spin on the end of the rope. He was a few

yards short of the spur of rock on which the dead dik-dik lay, and he,

was forced to let himself drop into the river. With the end of the rope

held between his teeth he swam the last short distance with a furious

overarm crawl, just beating the current's attempt to sweep him away

downstream.

He dragged himself up on to the island and took a few moments to catch

his breath, before he could admire the beautiful little creature he had

killed. He felt the familiar melancholy and guilt as he stroked the

glossy hide and examined the perfect head with the extraordinary

proboscis. However, there was no time now for regrets, nor for the

searching of his hunter's conscience.

He trussed up the dik-dik, tying all four of its legs together securely,

then he stepped back and looked up. He could see Boris's face peering

down at him.

"Haul it up!" he shouted, and gave three yanks on the rope as the agreed

signal. The trackers were hidden from his view, but the slack in the

rope was taken up and then the dik-dik lifted clear of the island and

rose jerkily up the wall of the chasm. Nicholas watched it anxiously.

There was a moment when the rope seemed to snag when the carcass was

two-thirds of the way to the top, but then it freed itself and snaked on

up the cliff.

Eventually the dik-dik disappeared from his sight, and there was a long

delay until the rope end dropped back over the tip. Boris had been

sensible enough to weight it with a round stone the size of a man's

head, and he was hanging over the top of the cliff, watching its

progress and signalling to his men to control the descent.

When the end of the weighted line touched the surface of the water it

was just out of Nicholas's reach. From the top of the cliff Boris began

to swing the line until the end of it pendulumed close enough for

Nicholas to grab it.

With a bowline knot Nicholas tied a loop in the end of the line and

slipped it under his armpits. Then he looked up at Boris.

"Heave away!" he yelled, and tugged the dangling rope three times. The

slack tightened and then he was lifted off his feet. He began to ascend

in a series of spiralling jerks and heaves. As he rose, the belled wall

of the chasm arched in to meet him, until he could fend off from the

rock with his bare feet and stop himself spiralling at the end of the

rope. He was fifty feet from the top of the cliff when suddenly he