The sun is half way down in the west. Men are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge with ropes in their hands. But fifty more niches must be cut before the longest rope can reach the boy! Two minutes more, and all will be over. That blade is worn to the last half inch. The boy’s head reels. His last hope is dying in his heart, his life must hang upon the next niche he cuts. That niche will be his last.
At the last cut he makes, his knife—his faithful knife—drops from his little nerveless hand, and ringing down the precipice, falls at his mother’s feet! An involuntary groan of despair runs through the crowd below, and all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart and closing eyes to commend his soul to God.
Hark!—a shout falls on his ears from above! A man who is lying with half his length over the bridge, has caught a glimpse of the boy’s head and shoulders. Quick as thought the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes. With a faint, convulsive effort, the swooning boy drops his arm into the noose.
Not a lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss; but when a sturdy arm reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up before the tearful, breathless multitude—such shouting and such leaping and weeping for joy never greeted a human being so recovered from the jaws of death.