“We go on.”
“But surely,” said Purceville, in his best native tongue. “’Tis no trouble to stop.”
“We move!” The procession continued, always upward.
Ten steps from the top, Arthur collapsed. Rushing toward him with a look of sudden concern, the Lord Purceville lifted his shriveled form, and carried it like an injured child up to the broad final landing.
“Oh, this is bad,” he said, as he set him down and stooped to examine him. “I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake. Mister Cummings,” (this was the orderly), “Run like the Devil! Fetch my personal physician. Tell him what has happened, and that I fear for the Secretary’s heart. I’ll do what I can to make him comfortable here: we dare not try to move him.” The man turned pale with fright, then rushed headlong down the steps.
As soon as he was out of sight and hearing, Ballard set the torch in its iron mount, and allowed himself to smile in earnest.
“Got to hand it to you, Governor. That was a fine piece of work. He’ll be nine parts down before he remembers he can’t get out without my key. And he’s half winded as it is.”
“You must not take that for granted!” growled Purceville, himself not immune to the rigors of the climb. “Did you bring the flask as I told you?”
“Of course.” And a look of reproach.
“Then give it to me. Now!”