"I regard him as a brainless ass," he exclaimed.
"Somehow, that sounds like a description of a dead donkey, which one never sees."
"Mademoiselle!" came a voice from the lip of the ravine.
"One can hear him, though," laughed Hozier, with a warning pressure that suspiciously resembled a hug. These two were children, in some respects, quicker to jest than to grieve, better fitted for mirth than tragedy.
They moved out from their niche, and San Benavides blustered into vehement French.
"We are going to the landing-place before it is too dark," he muttered angrily. "We must not show a light; in a few minutes the path will be most dangerous. Please make haste, mademoiselle. We did not know where you had gone."
"The men knew," suggested Hozier in the girl's ear. He dared not trust either his temper or his vocabulary.
"We shall lose no time, now, monsieur," said Iris, hurrying on.
"This way then. No, we do not pass the cave. We go right round the cliff. Permit me, mademoiselle. I am acquainted with each step."
He took her hand. Philip followed. He was young enough to long for an opportunity to tell San Benavides that he was a puppy, a mongrel puppy. Just then he would have given a gun-metal case, filled with cigars—the only treasure he possessed—for a Portuguese dictionary.