“Only the echoes,” muttered Abel, as the sounds died away.
Then he started, for the hail came again, loud and clear, “Ahoy! Ahoy—ahoy–oy–oy!” and then once more the echoes.
But the hail was from down the narrow valley, and these echoes were from above.
“Hurrah! Help coming!” cried Abel wildly. “Ahoy, there! Help!”
He wrenched his head round to utter the cry, and was conscious of a heavy pang in his injured throat. But what of that at such a time, when the cry was answered by another? “Ahoy! ahoy!” No deceiving echo, for in addition came, “Where are yer?” and that was echoed too.
Abel’s lips parted to reply, but a chill of despair shot through every nerve once more, and he uttered a bitter groan.
There they were—there could be no doubt of it. The three cowardly, treacherous ruffians had escaped, and he was calling them to his help. Not four hundred yards down the valley, plainly to be seen in the broad sunshine, all three of them, two dragging a heavily laden sledge, the other, the big-bearded ruffian, a short distance in front, in the act of putting his hands to his mouth to shout again:
“Where away, O?”
“Will they see me with just my head out like this? Yes, they are certain to, for they must come by here. Oh, Dal, Dal, old man, don’t dig now. For heaven’s sake, keep still: they’re coming to finish their horrid work.”