The stillness of death was upon the defile. Far above a solitary vulture wheeled in airy echelon as if waiting to feast upon a certain victim.
Awful horror was upon Harding.
He clung to the scrub with an energy born of despair.
He dared not cast his glance downward for fear he would relax his grip and fall.
Fearful thoughts coursed through his fevered brain.
Awful agonies he suffered in that moment, and the end seemed certain to be death. Several times the frenzy of despair nigh overcame him and he almost relaxed his grip and fell.
“Oh, God!” he moaned, “am I to die thus? Is this to be my fate?”
And yet what was to save him?
The region seemed utterly deserted. There seemed not the least chance of his rescue being effected, for there were probably no human beings other than himself and Vane within many miles of the place.
The story of the presence of the two men in these parts was a brief one.