They could not say to
the river that it must rise no farther, and they could not go to the
house, nor let a rope down, and there was the crumbled moiety of the hill
which blocked the way to the house: elsewhere it was sheer precipice
without trees.
There was no corner in these hills that Macavoy and Pierre did not know,
and at last, when despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, having
spoken a low word to Pierre, said: "There's wan way, an' maybe I can an'
maybe I can't, but I'm fit to try. I'll go up the river to an aisy p'int
a mile above, get in, and drift down to a p'int below there, thin climb
up and loose the stuff."
Every man present knew the double danger: the swift headlong river, and
the sudden rush of rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the side of
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.
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