CHAPTER EIGHT.
HOW RALPH SECURED THE WOLF'S CUB.
The perspiration broke out in great drops upon Mark Eden's face; and for some minutes he hung there, expecting moment by moment that each was his last, for he knew that he could do nothing, and that he must not stir hand or foot.
And now he began to realise how mad his attempt had been.

Better far that he had resigned himself to circumstances, and climbed back to the top.

But even then he felt he could not have done this.

It would have been like humbling himself to an enemy of his house, and a flush of pride came into his pallid cheeks as he felt that he had boldly played his part.

Then a sense of misery and despair crept over him as he thought of home, of his father and sister, and their sorrow when they knew of his fate.
All that passed off, and a flush of anger and indignation made his temples throb, for he distinctly heard Nick Garth say,-- "Why not?
Heave it down yourself, then, and put him out of his misery." What else was said he could not make out; voices were in hurried converse evidently a short distance back from the edge of the cliff, and then Mark recognised Ralph's tones, as he said huskily,-- "Can you hold on ?" A bitter defiant taunt came to Mark's lips, and he cried,-- "Your doing, coward! Are you satisfied with your work ?" There was no answer, but the hurried murmur came over the edge of the cliff again, followed by what sounded like angry commands, and then all was silent for a few moments.
"Don't move," cried Ralph then.