But if he has wandered on to the cliffs above Trifaen, he's a dead man, then, at all events.

Get out of the way of that flash! A close shave, that! I believe my whiskers are singed." "'Pon my honour, Wynd, we ought to be saying our prayers rather than joking in this way." "We may do both, and be none the worse.

As for coming to grief, old boy, we're on a good errand, I suppose, and the devil himself can't harm us.
Still, shame to him who's ashamed of saying his prayers, as Arnold used to say." And all the while, these two brave lads have been thrusting their lanthorn into every crack and cranny, and beating round every crag carefully and cunningly, till long past two in the morning.
"Here's the ordnance cairn, at last; and--here am I astride of a carving-knife, I think! Come and help me off, or I shall be split to the chin!" "I'm coming! What's this soft under my feet?
Who-o-o-oop! Run him to earth at last!" And diving down into a crack, Wynd drags out by the collar the unconscious Elsley.
"What a swab! Like a piece of wet blotting-paper.

Lucky he's not made of salt." "He's dead!" says Naylor.
"Not a bit.

I can feel his heart.