A slim figure in a long, gray cloak rode on the foremost mule. Peter, aided by the black shadow, crept to her side.
"Miss Vost! Miss Vost!" he called softly. "It is Peter, Peter Moore!"
He heard her gasp in surprise, and her moan went into his heart like a ragged knife.
Peter tried to keep abreast, but the red clay dragged him back. Behind him some one shouted. They would emerge into the sharp moonlight in another second.
"Help me! Oh, help me!" she sobbed. "He's following! He is too late!"
She was carried out into the moonlight. At the same time, countless figures seemed to rise from the ground—from nowhere—and in every direction Peter was blocked. The stench of Len Yang's miserable inhabitants crept from these figures upon the chill night air.
Naked, unclean shoulders brushed him; moist, slimy hands pressed him back. But he was not harmed; he was simply pushed backward and backward until his bare foot encountered the first board of the bridge which was still lowered.
Behind him an order was hissed. He placed his back to the surging shadows. Coils of heavy rope were unfolding. The drawbridge was being raised.
Down the white road, veering drunkenly from one side to the other, came a leaping black dot.
The drawbridge creaked, the ropes became taut, and the far end lifted an inch at a time.