the narrow ravine opposite the little house. Macavoy had nothing to say
to the head-shakes of the others, and they did not try to dissuade him;
for women and children were in the question, and there they were below
beside the house, the children gathered round the mother, she
waiting--waiting.

Macavoy, stripped to the waist, and carrying only a hatchet and a coil of
rope tied round him, started away alone up the river. The others waited,
now and again calling comfort to the woman below, though their words
could not be heard. About half an hour passed, and then someone called
out: "Here he comes!" Presently they could see the rough head and the
bare shoulders of the giant in the wild churning stream. There was only
one point where he could get a hold on the hillside--the jutting bole of
a tree just beneath them, and beneath the dyke of rock and trees.

It was a great moment. The current swayed him out, but he plunged
forward, catching at the bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held
him an instant, as he was swung round, then it snapt. But the other hand
clenched the bole, and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, Macavoy
drew himself up. After that they could not see him. He alone was studying
the situation.

He found the key-rock to the dyked slide of earth. To loosen it was to
divert the slide away, or partly away, from the little house. But it
could not be loosened from above, if at all, and he himself would be in
the path of the destroying hill.

"Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy," he said to himself. "It's the woman and the
darlins av her, an' the rose o' the valley down there at the Post!"