“Mart watching?” I asked. “Watching for what?”
“I—” she hesitated oddly. “I think I'd rather tell you before him. It's so strange—so incredible.”
She led us through the broken portal and into the fortress. It was more gigantic even than I had thought. The floor of the vast chamber we had entered was strewn with fragments fallen from the crackling, stone-vaulted ceiling. Through the breaks light streamed from the level above us.
We picked our way among the debris to a wide crumbling stairway, crept up it, Ruth flitting ahead. We came out opposite one of the eye-like apertures. Black against it, perched high upon a pile of blocks, I recognized the long, lean outline of Ventnor, rifle in hand, gazing intently up the ancient road whose windings were plain through the opening. He had not heard us.
“Martin,” called Ruth softly.
He turned. A shaft of light from a crevice in the gap's edge struck his face, flashing it out from the semidarkness of the corner in which he crouched. I looked into the quiet gray eyes, upon the keen face.
“Goodwin!” he shouted, tumbling down from his perch, shaking me by the shoulders. “If I had been in the way of praying—you're the man I'd have prayed for. How did you get here?”
“Just wandering, Mart,” I answered. “But Lord! I'm sure GLAD to see you.”
“Which way did you come?” he asked, keenly. I threw my hand toward the south.
“Not through that hollow?” he asked incredulously.