Something tall and black and vaguely menacing loomed above them into the night.
“The church tower!” breathed the girl, after a moment. “See—there are ruins all about it—it is the village they burned.”
They hesitated. Should they enter it, or try to go around? There was something sinister and threatening about these roofless, blackened walls which had once been homes; but to go around meant climbing cliffs, meant breathless scrambling—above all, meant loss of time.
“We must risk it,” said the girl, at last. “We can come back if the place is guarded.”
Their hands instinctively tightened their clasp as they stole forward into the shadow of the houses, along what had once been a street, but was now littered and blocked with fallen walls and débris of every kind, some of it still smouldering. Everywhere there was the stench of half-burned wood, and another stench, more penetrating, more nauseating.
Stewart was staring uneasily about him, telling himself that that stench could not possibly be what it seemed, when his companion’s hand squeezed his and dragged him quickly aside against a wall.
“Down, down!” she breathed, and they cowered together behind a mass of fallen masonry.
Then Stewart peered out, cautiously. Yes, there was someone coming. Far down the street ahead of them a tiny light flashed, disappeared, flashed again, and disappeared.
Crowding close together, they buried themselves deeper in the ruins and waited.
At last they could hear steps—slow, cautious steps, full of fear—and the light appeared again, dancing from side to side. It seemed to be a small lantern, carefully shaded, so that only a narrow beam of light escaped; and that beam was sent dancing from side to side along the street, in dark corners, under fallen doorways.