No answer came.

He raised his voice a little louder.

"Foy! Speak if you're there! It's Pringle!" A gentle voice answered from the cleft: "Let us hope, for your sake, that you are not mistaken about that.

I should be dreadfully vexed if you were deceiving me.

The voice is the voice of Pringle, but how about the face?
I can only see your back." "I would raise my head, so you could take a nice look by the well-known cold gray light of the justly celebrated dawn," rejoined Pringle, "if I wasn't reasonably sure that a rifle shot would promptly mar the classic outlines of my face.