onfervae, and having the slippery look of a
soapy surface?

The ridge of the plateau was at least thirty feet above the deck of the
Durande.

Gilliatt took out of his box of tools the knotted cord, hooked it to his
belt by the grapnel, and set to work to scale the Little Douvre. The
ascent became more difficult as he climbed. He had forgotten to take off
his shoes, a fact which increased the difficulty. With great labour and
straining, however, he reached the point. Safely arrived there, he
raised himself and stood erect. There was scarcely room for his two
feet. To make it his lodging would be difficult. A Stylite might have
contented himself there; Gilliatt, more luxurious in his requirements,
wanted something more commodious.

The Little Douvre, leaning towards the great one, looked from a distance
as if it was saluting it, and the space between the Douvres, which was
some score of feet below, was only eight or ten at the highest points.

From the spot to which he had climbed, Gilliatt saw more distinctly the
rocky excrescence which partly covered the plateau of the Great Douvre.

This plateau rose three fathoms at least above his head.

A precipice separated him from it. The curved escarpment of the Little
Douvre sloped away out of sight beneath him.

He detached the knotted rope from his belt, took a rapid glance at the
dimensions of the rock, and slung the grapnel up to the plateau.

The grapnel scratched the rock, and slipped. The knotted rope with the
hooks at its end fell down beneath his feet, swinging against the side
of the little Douvre.

He renewed the attempt; slung the rope further, aiming at the granite
protuberance, in which he could perceive crevices and scratches.

The cast was, this time, so neat and skilful, that the hooks caught.

He pulled from below. A portion of the rock broke away, and the knotted
rope with its heavy iron came down once more, striking the escarpment
beneath his feet.

He slung the grapnel a third time.

It did not fall.

He put a strain upon the rope; it resisted. The grapnel was firmly
anchored.

The hooks had caught in some fracture of the plateau which he could not
see.

It was necessary to trust his life to that unknown support.

He did not hesitate.

The matter was urgent. He was compelled to take the shortest route.

Moreover, to descend again to the deck of the Durande, in order to
devise some other step, was impossible. A slip was probable, and