There was no noise, no outcry, no sound of struggle. There was nothing to be seen but the peaceful, prostrate figures of the two men darkly outlined on the ledge. They might have been sleeping in each other's arms. In the black silence the stealthy tread of Wiles in the brush above was distinctly audible.
Gradually the struggles grew fainter. Then a whisper from the crags:
“I can't see you. What are you doing?”
“Watching!”
“Sleeps he?”
“He sleeps!”
“Soundly?”
“Soundly.”
“After the manner of the dead?”
“After the fashion of the dead!”