"Suppose that we move," he went on. "You have got the lanthorn, so you had better go first."
He drew to one side as he spoke, and made room for Hawke to pass. But at the very moment that he was taking the step, Hawke suddenly placed the lanthorn on the ground, and cried--
"Wait a moment!"
The next instant he stood upright, and that opportunity was gone.
"I have got a bottle of brandy here," said Hawke. "We had better open it. Has your knife got a corkscrew?"
Gordon thrust his hand quickly into his pocket and felt the sharp blade cut into his flesh. But he drew his hand out again empty, and said--
"I haven't got a knife at all. I left mine at home."
"We must use mine, then, and knock the neck off. They have jammed the cork in so tightly, that there is no other way. Here! hold the bottle."
Hawke handed him the bottle and searched in his pocket for his knife. He was perfectly defenceless at the moment, but the memory of Arkwright's accident had suddenly flashed upon Gordon and suggested to him a safer plan.
He added another item to his supposed new knowledge. He understood now, he fancied, why the recollection of that night in the Alps had so persistently mingled with his thoughts yesterday, and he laughed gleefully.