They worked desperately, these two men, knowing how much depended upon the next few minutes, and an onlooker would have been astounded at the progress they made, encumbered as they were with the weight and bulk of their helpless companion.
In one minute from the time of starting they had gained a height of forty feet, and then the sudden trampling of horses’ hoofs, and the loud shouts of their pursuers told them that the latter had rounded the bend, and that they were seen.
In a few seconds the sounds ceased at the foot of the cliff, and in another instant the voice of the head overseer was heard shouting to them—
“Hola there! Giorgio—you miscreant—come down, or I will fire!”
“Keep steady, Tom,” gasped George. “Let them fire; the chances are ten to one that they will miss us. Do you feel nervous, lad?”
“Not I,” answered Tom; “never felt steadier in my life, cap’n. This rope is cutting into my shoulders awful bad, though.”
“So it is into mine,” returned George; “but we must grin and bear it now, until we get to the top. And—whatever you do—look up, boy; if you look down, you’ll grow dizzy, and, likely enough, slip; then down we must all inevitably go.”
“Are you coming down, you rascals?” shouted the overseer.
“It don’t look much like it, I reckon, senhor,” chuckled Tom to himself, hoisting himself over the edge of a good broad ledge of rock as he spoke, a ledge some ten feet in width.
“Now!” exclaimed Leicester, as he helped the lad up, “we’ll rest here a minute or two, and recover our breath. They may blaze away at us as long as they like now; we’re as safe from their bullets as if they were a dozen miles away.”