There was no one to look, and he dashed recklessly across the narrow strip of sand to the shadow of the cliffs, along which he ran until he came opposite the place of his mother's death. The white water was rolling and crashing on the beach, and the body was gone. With a hasty petition for the repose of her soul, he ran on until he reached the turn of the road. There, like the priest, he made another prayer, and it was a prayer not different from that which had been voiced so short a time before.
But his petitions were soon over. It was a time for work, not prayer. No moment could be lost. He girded up his loins and turned away on the run. Unlike the priest, however, he did not pursue the mountain road, but, after going a short distance, he left the way and plunged to the right through the trees directly up the side of the hill.
His face was cut and slashed by Morgan's dagger; his soul had been racked and torn by the scenes he had gone through; the plight of Mercedes stirred him to the very depths; his heart yearned over the slaughtered garrison, the ruined town, but with a strength superhuman he plunged at the hill, in spite of the forest, groping about in the darkness with frantic energy until he found the traces of a slender, rocky path which led over the mountains.