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Now he could see that the half-detached mass of the roof still hung; it was a smaller fragment which had fallen, one nearer to the entrance. He could see also that I lay in the same position beneath the rock, and he thought that I was dead, because I neither moved nor spoke, though, in fact, I had but swooned under the agony of my suffering.

“Are you dead?” he whispered, and I heard his voice through my sleep, and, lifting my head, looked up at him astonished, for I had never thought to see him again.

“Do I behold a spirit,” I said, “or is it you come back?”

“It is I, Ignatio, and I have brought a lever. Now when I lift, struggle forward if you can.”

Then he placed the trunk of the thorn-tree in what seemed to him the best position, and put all his strength upon it. It was in vain; even so he could not stir the rock.

“Try a little more to the right,” I said, faintly; “there is a better hold.”

He shifted the lever and dragged at it till his muscles cracked, and I felt the stone tremble as its bulk began to rise.