“What are you doing?” she gasped, staring down at me.
“Sit here beside me,” I commanded, my heart beating triumphantly; and as she obeyed, still staring, I pulled off my own shoes and slipped them over hers. Worn in that way, they fitted as well as could be desired; they would at least protect her from the roughness of the road until better ones could be found. Then I stuffed the dead man’s shoes with grass until they fitted my own feet snugly.
“Now,” I said, “we are ready to be off;” and I sprang to my feet and drew her after me.
“You are a most ingenious man, M. de Tavernay,” she commented. “I am ready;” and she followed me up the hill and through a thicket of underbrush which crowned its summit.
Not a moment too soon; for as we paused to look back before starting downward, we saw a score of torches advancing up the valley toward the spot which we had left. Evidently there was to be no chance of failure this time.
“Come,” I said, and caught her hand.
The slope was free from underbrush and fairly smooth.
“A race!” she cried, her eyes dancing; and a moment later we arrived breathless at the bottom.
Here there was a wall of stone. We rested a moment on top of it, then I helped her down into the narrow, rutted road beyond. It ran, as nearly as I could judge, east and west, and turning our faces westward, we hurried along it, anxious to put all chance of capture far behind.
The night was sweet and clear and my heart sang with the very joy of living. I felt strong, vigorous, ready to face any emergency. My recent encounter had left no souvenir more serious than a tender throat, and as I thought of it I wondered again at the resolution which had nerved that soft and delicate arm to drive the blade home in the back of my assailant. She, too, had proved herself able to meet a crisis bravely, and to rise to whatever heroism it demanded.