“They will be in the tangi directly,” said Nesta, shading her eyes to watch the distant figures. “There, they are in it now,” as the latter disappeared in what looked like the mountain side itself, for no rift was discernible from where these two now rode.
“We had better get on, hadn’t we?” urged Campian.
“Oh no. I hate hurrying, and there’s no earthly reason why we should.”
So they held on at the same foot’s pace over the plain, which stretched its weary desolation far on either side of them. Here and there a great hump of earth, streaked with white gypsum, relieved the dead level monotony, but not a living thing—man, beast or bird—was in sight. Not even a sound was audible, except the deep-toned growl of the thunder, growing louder as they neared the mountain wall.
“Good study for a subject illustrating the jaws of Death,” remarked Campian, as, now before them, the mountain seemed to yawn apart in a vertical fissure, which the stupendous height of the cliffs on either hand caused to appear as a mere slit.
“Yes. And—it’s beginning to rain.”
Large drops were pattering down as they entered the jaws of the great chasm, but once within them there was shelter for a space, for the cliffs took an abrupt slant over at about a hundred feet above, so that the sky was no longer visible. A trickle of muddy water was already running down the stony footway. This should have warned Campian, at any rate; but then his experience of the country and this particular feature thereof, was not large. Nesta shivered.
“I don’t like this at all,” she said. “It is horrible. What if the tangi should come down?”
The other glanced upward. The cliff walls were smooth and straight. Not a sign of ledge or projection to afford a foothold, no clinging shrub or tree anchored in a cleft.
“Shall we go back?” he said. “There must be some way over.”