"But your arms?" protested Aylmer. "Your arms?"
The breath hissed between Landon's teeth.
"My arms!" he repeated. "God! If I'd my arms! You—you must lead me—carefully—carefully. Put your hand upon my shoulder; keep close—close."
For a dozen yards he tottered along, and the sweat broke out astream upon his scars. And then he halted, and stumbled.
The quartermaster instinctively put a hand upon one of the broken wrists. Landon shrieked, and cursed him hideously.
"Monsieur might have fallen," apologized the man. "My excuses, Monsieur, but it was so quick—so near—the danger. The drop is sheer, do you see, sheer down to the square."
Landon gasped. "Which side?" he asked thickly. "Which side?"
"The right," said Aylmer. "Lean away from me, inwards, to the left!"
Landon drew a deep breath.
The next instant he had flung himself against Aylmer's guiding hand, outwards, to the right!