"Desmond, Desmond, you leave me so!"
He turned on the threshold, a square, obstinate figure against the violet twilight.
"I'd never do it," he said quite gently, "if I didn't know you'd thank me some day."
"Desmond—"
"Good-by, sir."
"Desmond—"
The doorway was empty; the evening serenata of a robin filled the hush. Allard's head sank on his arm in the darkest moment of the last somber months.
But presently he looked up again. Still dressed as when the accident had happened a few hours before, he possessed a tiny box of cartridges, and only the width of the room separated him from his desire. He impulsively tossed aside the blanket and slipped to the floor.
The fall drew a gasp of pain. All before faded to insignificance beside the anguish of movement. It was not the ankle only; the injury had gone farther than that. Colorless, catching his breath with difficulty, Allard dragged himself inch by inch toward the goal.
Desmond was almost forgotten when the first shot on the mountain-side rang out. Startled from the mists of suffering, Allard paused an instant. Then as a very fusillade reverberated among the cliffs, he toiled on with redoubled haste. They would come next for him.