"Go on! Go on!" he cried, and paused to pick up his shoes, for the sharp gravel warned him, that, with unprotected feet, flight would be impossible. His coat lay beside them and he grabbed that too. Then he was up again and after her, across the cruel stones of the shore, toward the darkness of the wood and safety—one yard—two yards——
And always the searchlight beat upon them mercilessly.
There came a roar of rifles from the river, a flash of flame, the whistle of bullets about his ears.
And then they were in the wood and he had her by the hand.
"Not hurt?" he gasped.
"No, no!"
"Thank heaven! We are safe for a moment. Get on some clothes—especially your shoes. We can't run barefooted!"
He was fumbling with his own shoes as he spoke—managed to thrust his bruised feet into them—stuffed his socks into the pocket of his coat and slipped into it.
"Ready?" he asked.
"In a moment!"