“Right.” My own breathing was growing labored, “WE'LL hold them. Drake can take care of Ruth.”
“Good boy,” he said. “I wouldn't have asked you. It probably means death.”
“Very well,” I gasped, irritated. “But why borrow trouble?”
He reached out, touched me.
“You're right, Walter,” he grinned. “It does—seem—like carrying coals—to Newcastle.”
There was a thunderous booming behind us; a shattering crash. A cloud of smoke and dust hung over the northern end of the ruined fortress.
It lifted swiftly, and I saw that the whole side of the structure had fallen, littering the road with its fragments. Scattered prone among these were men and horses; others staggered, screaming. On the farther side of this stony dike our pursuers were held like rushing waters behind a sudden fallen tree.
“Timed to a second!” cried Ventnor. “Hold 'em for a while. Fuses and dynamite. Blew out the whole side, right on 'em, by the Lord!”
On we fled. Chiu-Ming was now well in advance; Ruth and Dick less than half a mile from the opening of the green tunnel. I saw Drake stop, raise his rifle, empty it before him, and, holding Ruth by the hand, race back toward us.
Even as he turned, the vine-screened entrance through which we had come, through which we had thought lay safety, streamed other armored men. We were outflanked.