It was Roy's 'good minute': and in the breathless rush that followed, he swept Dyán along with him—unresisting, exalted, amazed——
The farewell letter was written; and Dyán's few belongings stowed into a basket-box. Then they hurried down, through the dark courtyard into the darker tunnel; and Roy felt unashamedly glad not to be alone. His feet would hurry, in spite of him; and that kept him a few paces ahead.
Passing a dark alcove, he swerved instinctively—and hoped to goodness Dyán had not seen.
Just before reaching the next one he tripped over something—taut string or wire stretched across the passage. It should have sent him headlong had he been less agile. As it was, he stumbled, cursed and kept his feet.
"'Ware man-trap!" he called back to Dyán, under his breath.
Next instant, from the alcove, a shot rang out: and it was Dyán who cursed; for the bullet had grazed his arm.
They both ran now; and made no bones about it. Roy's sensations reminded him vividly of the night he and Lance fled from the Turks.
"We seem to have butted in and spoilt somebody's little game!" he remarked, as they turned into a wider street and slackened speed. "How's your arm?"
"Nothing. A mere scratch." Dyán's tone was graver. "But that's most unusual. I can't make it out——"
"You're well quit of it all, anyhow," said Roy, and slipped a hand through his arm.