The words were scarcely off from her lips before she cried out with a loud cry, and sprang forward, clutching at Joy's dress.
She was too late.
Joy tripped over a mass of briars, fell, rolled heavily--not over upon the ground, but _off_.

Off into horrible, utter darkness.

Down, with outstretched hands and one long shriek.
Gypsy stood as if someone had charmed her into a marble statue, her hands thrown above her head, her eyes peering into the blank darkness below.
She stood so for one instant only; then she did what only wild, impulsive Gypsy would have done.

She went directly down after Joy, clinging with her hands and feet to the side of the cliff; slipping, rolling, getting to her feet again, tearing her clothes, her hands, her arms--down like a ball, bounding, bouncing, blinded, bewildered.
If it had been four hundred feet, there is no doubt she would have gone just the same.

It proved to be only ten, and she landed somewhere on a patch of soft grass, except for her scratches and a bruise or two, quite unhurt.
Something lay here beside her, flat upon the ground.