"It is true," said he. "We must not delay."
The waning moonlight was playing them false, even as he spoke.
Shadows, deepening around, would have confused clearer heads than theirs.
Yes, it was time they reached the coast. Had they not left it all too late already?
Shouts from the right, where Varenac village lay hidden by a downward sweep of the moor, told them that Marcel Trouet was not minded to be outwitted.
Trackers or spies might have guessed where they rode. At any rate, it was certain that the pursuit was being persevered in,—would be persevered in to the last.
But the shouts gave them warning.
A warning not to be disregarded.
Those who hastened towards the Cave of Lost Souls did not waste time in conversation.
A desolate and gloomy shelter. Well-named, indeed. Moaning winds whistled and sobbed through crevices in the great rocks which hemmed in the cave on each side.