"Garin!" cried Thrala. Her questing hand touched his shoulder and crept to his face. "It is well with you?"
"Yes," he panted, "let us go on."
Thrala's fingers had lingered on his arm and now she walked beside him, her cloak making whispering sounds as it brushed against the wall and floor.
"Wait," she cautioned suddenly. "The morgel pit...."
Dandtan slipped by them. "I will try the door."
In a moment he was back. "It is open," he whispered.
"Kepta believes," mused Thrala, "that we will keep to the safety of the gallery. Therefore let us go through the pit. The morgels will be gone to better hunting grounds."
Through the pit they went. A choking stench arose from underfoot and they trod very carefully. They climbed the stairs on the far side unchallenged, Dandtan leading.
"The rod here, Garin," he called; "this door is barred."
Garin pressed the weapon into the other's hand and leaned against the rock. He was sick and dizzy. The long, deep wounds on his arm and shoulder were stiffening and ached with a biting throb.