Gerda pressed her hands upon the bough as he had suggested, and after a few struggles was lying prone along it, holding it so closely with her arms and legs that he could hardly distinguish the one living thing from the other.

“Well done, sweetheart!” he cried. “That’s right. Now work your way towards the trunk. Careful now! Straddle your legs⁠—you’ll scratch your knees like that⁠—straddle your legs and hold with your hands!”

Again she obeyed him with good-humoured docility. And as he watched her shadowy figure riding the swaying branch, he could not help recalling the wicked tombstone-picture; and the thought⁠—the very last thought he expected to cross his mind that night⁠—flitted into his senses, that it would be a desirable moment when he blew out the candle in their room⁠—blew out that candle for the second time!

“That’s it, Gerda, that’s it! Now get hold of the branch above, and pull yourself on to it!”