“Ay,” the boy gasped, “reck'n he is.” Up and up they climbed through the blackness, blind and buffeted. The eternal thunder of the rain was all about them; the clamor of the gale above; and far beneath, the roar of angry waters.
Once, in a lull in the storm, the Master turned and looked back into the blackness along the path they had come.
“Did ye hear onythin'?” he roared above the muffled soughing of the wind.
“Nay!” Andrew shouted back.
“I thowt I heard a step!” the Master cried, peering down. But nothing could he see.
Then the wind leaped to life again like a giant from his sleep, drowning all sound with its hurricane voice; and they turned and bent to their task again.
Nearing the summit, the Master turned once more.
“There it was again!” he called; but his words were swept away on the storm; and they buckled to the struggle afresh.
Ever and anon the moon gleamed down through the riot of tossing sky. Then they could see the wet wall above them, with the water tumbling down its sheer face; and far below, in the roaring gutter of the Pass a brown-stained torrent. Hardly, however, had they time to glance around when a mass of cloud would hurry jealously up, and all again was blackness and noise.
At length, nigh spent, they topped the last and steepest pitch of the Pass, and emerged into the Devil's Bowl. There, overcome with their exertions, they flung themselves on to the soaking ground to draw breath.