Me Dain's words were short but to the point.
"Kachins!" he cried. "Come on," and pushed ahead with the woman, who was off like a deer at the first hint of danger.
"How far to the end of the pass, Me Dain?" called Mr. Haydon.
"Not more than two miles, sahib," replied the Burman.
"Good," said Jack, "if we can only clear the pass we may find some means of throwing them off. In the pass they have us tight between the walls."
"That's it, Jack," returned his father, and then they hurried over the wild broken track in silence.
Half a mile farther on Jack pointed forward. "Hallo!" he said, "here's another of those roads built along the precipice. I hope it will be a bit sounder than the last."
In another moment they arrived at a stretch of the path where the road was carried in mid-air over a deep chasm in the bed of the pass. They had already passed two such places, and at each point the road was constructed in the same manner. Holes had been cut horizontally in the sheer face of the precipice and huge beams driven into them. About six feet of each beam was left projecting from the hole, and upon these outstanding bars, smaller beams were laid parallel to the face of the rock. The earth had been heaped on all, and the result was a narrow road running along the cliff like a shelf.
The last they had passed had been very rotten, and Me Dain had gone through one hole up to his arm-pits. He had only been saved from a fall into the yawning gulf below by the promptness of Jack, who had flung himself on his knees and whipped his hands under the Burman's arms, and held him up. Warned by this misadventure, they moved slowly and carefully along the narrow track which now lay before them.
"Take care, take care," said Mr. Haydon, "this road is worse than the others. We must go in single file. These beams will not take any great weight."